


This Is Where We Are Now

by PurpleCompromise



Series: The Heart of Surgeoning [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Multi, Reader-Insert, Tenth class, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 84,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3990601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleCompromise/pseuds/PurpleCompromise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The compound at Teufort rises, sprawling, out of the desert as Miss Pauling’s car kicks up sand in the dry wind that’s already clogging your lungs. No amount of sunscreen can save you from the pale glare overhead; the only thing that eases your eyes is the brim of your homburg—and barely that. You’re still squinting as your escort stops the car outside the fence. </p><p>“We’ll walk,” she says with a polite smile, lightly slapping the steering wheel with her driving gloves.</p><p>---</p><p>What it says on the tin: a reader-insert fic with a plausible tenth class. A quick-paced, slow-burn Reader/Medic fic. 50% realism, 50% escapism. 100% guilty pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Teufort Nine

The compound at Teufort rises, sprawling, out of the desert as Miss Pauling’s car kicks up sand in the dry wind that’s already clogging your lungs. No amount of sunscreen can save you from the pale glare overhead; the only thing that eases your eyes is the brim of your homburg—and barely that. You’re still squinting as your escort stops the car outside the chain-link fence.

“We’ll walk,” she says with a polite smile, lightly slapping the steering wheel with her driving gloves.

“Miss Pauling.” You frown through the windshield and fence at the silent, wood-and-aluminum complex.

She stops, hand on the latch of her door. “Nervous?” She peers over her glasses, and you nod. Her green eyes are kind.

“A little,” you correct before she speaks.

“I’m sure you’ll settle in just fine! The boys are used to one another, so you’ve missed their adjustment, fortunately,” Miss Pauling assured, stepping out of the convertible. You do the same as she efficiently brushes the wrinkles from her purple skirt and blouse. “And, as you know, your personal items have already arrived, so you’ll have nothing to worry about this evening. Of course, that _does_ mean someone might have had time to… snoop. But they’ve been warned already about getting into your crate to satisfy their curiosity.”

Sure. You resist the urge to press a hand over your eyes. Curious mercenaries would _certainly_ be polite enough to stay out of your things.

Well, this is why you agreed to carry your weapons and unmentionables in with you this afternoon.

You don’t bother brushing travel-wrinkles out of your dark jeans or the red, collared button-down you had selected. The wrinkles will be there no matter what. You take your messenger bag from the backseat instead as Miss Pauling reaches for a clip-board alongside the console, and sling it over your shoulder. “Work starts tomorrow, at seven-hundred hours,” she continues, opening the gate, “so even if things seem awkward, they’ll straighten themselves out on the field. They always do.” She smiles again, reassuring, and you almost forget she shot a man in cold blood not an hour ago—some sort of ‘loose-end.’ You respected that. Of course—you had to, now. It was part of the career.

You fall into step beside her, your boots padding quietly on cracked soil and sand. You glance sidelong at Miss Pauling—you’re a head taller, and she in true high heels… and damned if she didn’t dispose of the body that way, too, insisting that she needed no assistance! You never could get that level of grace and ease down. But no, it wasn’t her enviable ease that made you self-conscious: it was your size. Not simply height, nor the fact that she had a thinner figure. It was sheer mass—broad shoulders, and filled to fit the frame. Wide hips, large hands. Just… bigger than many of the women you’ve been around in your life.

But now, you have a job where it might _help_ , and for that you are thankful, even if you do feel a little overlarge standing next to Miss Pauling.

Metal double-doors set into a garishly painted wall become your primary focus. The portal to your new home, if all goes well. Fingers tighten over the messenger bag, as though having the gun it conceals close to your hands would make you more secure.

A creak.

You must have missed some signal, for out of the double-doors file nine mercenaries. Your eyes snap to Miss Pauling, but she offers no glance, only an amenable gaze on the restless figures. The air seems much thicker now, and you very much wish you had your weapon pressed coldly against your palm, cooling the heat that threatened to color your cheeks. Nine scrutinizing glares: you’re not what they expected. Of course you’re not.

What the hell are you doing here?

Money. Steady job. Money. Self-sufficiency. Money—isn’t everything.

You’d forgotten how much you hate being stared at.

“Gentlemen.” The two of you have stopped just short of the step, and Miss Pauling addresses them easily. The classes are already familiar from briefing—the spy, most easily recognizable (save for the pyro), stands toward the back, feigning disinterest, smoking a cigarette. Or perhaps he _is_ disinterested; the mask does its work.

He raises a brow at you beneath the balaclava and you quickly find another face. The demoman (one eye, as Miss Pauling had said) is drinking, but his singular gaze is far too clear for your liking—perceptive. You move on. The youngest is—ugh—clearly checking both of you out… and _damn_ it you’d stopped listening—

“…is your new team-mate. She’ll be staying for two weeks as part of the evaluation, and if things work out well for the new class system, she’ll be joining your contract permanently. Gentlemen,” Miss Pauling tucks the clip-board beneath her arm. “Meet the Specialist.”

With that sweeping gesture, you think you really ought to say something.

“Hello.”

_Smooth._

You try a small smile, fingers curling over the top strap of your bag.

“Hello!”

“How d’you do?”

“A _girl_ , huh?”

“Ach, another American.” The Spy takes a long drag on his cigarette, and immediately turns away.

You frown before any of his teammates can speak. “ _Excusez-moi, monsieur._ ” He stops. You know your pronunciation is excellent; it’s the only thing you can pride yourself on. The spy turns, and lowers the cigarette, smoke curling around his balaclava. “I’ll admit I failed my French course,” you add. “But you’re in the United States, are you not? It seems American coworkers would be an occupational hazard.”

But the spy does not miss a beat: “I was told this team would be comprised only of the best. On a day such as this, it seems I was misled.”

Miss Pauling frowns. “Spy—”

He draws upon his cigarette again. “But we shall see tomorrow, _non?_ Until then, I have other business.” He turns on his heel and reenters the compound.

“Don’t let the Frenchie bother ya.” The boy shrugs, offering a cocksure grin, dog tags jingling when he folds his arms. “So—a girl.”

You sigh. “It would appear so.”

“Cool. Been just guys around here for waaay too long—except for you, ‘a course, Miss Pauling, but you don’t come ‘round often enough. Maybe you’d like to—”

“I have work that I need to get back to today,” the woman replies coolly, hardly sparing him a glance from behind her spectacles. You rather admire that. Again. “So, if we could move things along—Specialist.”

You reflexively straighten as soon as the code-name registers. “Ma’am,” you manage after a moment.

She waves a hand. “Just Miss Pauling.” Her attention turns to the eight mercenaries left on the steps. “This is Pyro, Soldier, Engineer, Medic, Heavy, Demoman, Sniper, and I’m sure you’ve gathered this is Scout.”

“Only heard good things about me, I know! They’re all pretty obvious. Hard to miss me. Right, Miss Pauling? Y’know…”

You do recall some mention of the Scout being rather young, and, put more politely during that briefing than you were thinking now, _a loudmouth_. You resign yourself to filtering out the useless chatter.

Your next thought is that, all-in-all, they don’t make an _un_ attractive lineup (not that the pyro has removed their mask, but even so--). If all goes well, and you have to look at them almost exclusively for the next five years, well... you can live with that.

Of course, they could turn out to be a bunch of assholes.

That would be unfortunate.

“Exactly what _sort_ of specialist are you?” The sniper peers from beneath a wide-brimmed hat and amber shades. Australian, from the sound of it.

Your hands tighten around your bag again. You look to Miss Pauling, still in a long-suffering conversation with the scout. No help. “It’s... a bit difficult to explain. I’m sort of—”

“One-part vanguard, two-parts surprise,” Miss Pauling answered.

You try to telepathically send your gratitude through the rippling heat-waves.

“The best explanation I can think of is to see the new class in action. You’ll learn best how to take advantage of her tactics during warm-up and on the field.” She gives you a nod, sliding her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.

“It might be a wee bit easier if we knew something about the lass!” The demoman—sporting a thick, Scottish accent—makes a broad gesture with the bottle in his hand. A brown bottle, rather mysteriously unlabeled.

“My crate didn’t reveal much?” You snap your mouth shut.

You really hadn’t meant to say that; you would have done the same in their place. Did it matter? At least the group had the decency to look a little embarrassed, if not ashamed.

Miss Pauling sighed. “You were expressly told _not_ to.”

More averted eyes and awkward shuffling.

“I’d, uh, like to apologize, ma’am.” One of the men—with dark goggles pushed up on his forehead; the engineer, you recall—steps off the platform, removing a thick work-glove. He dusts the hand off on a pant-leg before offering it. “Name’s Engineer—Engie, if y’like.” There’s a comforting drawl to his voice, and you find yourself relaxing somewhat... it’s familiar. You take his rough hand and shake it firmly.

“No harm done.” You offer a smile. “I’d have been tempted.”

“Let me also say that I am sorry!” The soldier—immediately and easily recognizable in a helmet and uniform coat—marches off the platform to crowd the engineer out of your space. He gives a short salute. “It is a violation of company personnel code to rifle through a fellow’s belongings. My apologies, private!”

Gods, he has a voice like a damn drill sergeant. You force a half-smile. “More like an ensign, I think, but apology accepted—”

“Oh-ho, a Squid, eh?” He grins conspiratorially.

 _Shit._ Your knuckles whiten against the dark, canvas strap. “Not… exactly, no…”

“No personal questions, Soldier.” Miss Pauling frowns.

“Of course!” He gave her a hasty salute. “I will be running the obstacles course. I expect you need a stretch to warm up before the battle, _ensign_. Come find me after you’ve been briefed.”

“Thanks.” You have absolutely no intention of running anything today, but the man marches off, apparently satisfied.

You turn back to the group to find the largest positively looming over you. He had seemed huge, of course, standing near the door, but now—you feel utterly dwarfed. It’s… new. Unusual. Intimidating, yes, but also something of a relief after feeling so clunky beside Miss Pauling all day. “Wish to apologize also,” he says, extending a massive hand. Russian, no mistake. You brace yourself for a crushing grip, but it never comes; his calloused hand is gentle—deceptively so, beneath scarred knuckles. “I am Heavy. If you have questions about weapons, I can answer them.”

“Thank you.” Your head is tilted rather further than you’re used to, but at least he blocks the sun. “I appreciate it.”

“You are welcome.” He returns your smile. “Also, you have good books. The selection is… big.”

You chuckle. “I pride myself on them. Perhaps you can borrow a couple sometime?”

He nods. “Might enjoy it. But… English vocabulary is not always good.” He shrugs. “But perhaps.”

Then, Scout is hot on Heavy’s heels. “Guess I’m sorry, too. Not good manners to look through a lady’s things an’ all.”

You can’t quite smother a cheeky grin. “It isn’t as though I left anything in that crate of an especially personal nature. It’s fine, all of you.”

The boy folded his arms. “Heh—I did wonder after I saw ya why we didn’t find any kind of—”

“Mrmp mry. Mrk mrr.” You find yourself in a bone-crushing hug that smells of rubber, kerosene, and smoke.

“Uh—” Gut reaction is to return the embrace, even though you can feel the filters of a gas mask poking into your shoulder.

“Pyro says they're sorry, and thanks,” Engie provided.

“Oh—you’re welcome—hrk.” The hug threatens to break ribs at this rate.

“All right, let’s not try to send the poor girl through respawn before she’s been calibrated into the system.”

Oh. Yes. _Respawn_. It sounded much too good to be true, though you desperately wanted to see it in action. Of course, you’d rather not _experience_ it to gain the information—no, you’d be doing your damnedest tomorrow to make sure you didn’t actually test the miraculous technology.

“Speaking of,” says Miss Pauling as Engie gently pries Pyro away from you, “Medic can take you inside and get everything set: calibration, exam, and system compatibility.”

“But you may wish to get settled first.” German. He stepped down to offer his hand. Tall, lean, in a fitted white coat—you could have guessed without introduction. His gaze is appraising behind little, round spectacles as he offers a bare hand, gloves tucked into his belt. “Medic, of course.” His handshake is firm, hands smooth—callouses centered mostly at the bottom of the palm, and on the first and fourth fingers (trigger and pencil?). His grip, however, is just a touch too tight. You hold his icy gaze, and attempt not to squirm like an insect, his eyes crinkled just a little at the edges, hard, scrutinizing. Your hand tightens before you let go. His brows arch.

Involuntarily, you clear your throat. “I’d just like to take my bag to my room.”

“Be glad to show you the way,” says Engineer. But you notice his eyes rest on Medic—not you—and the doctor pretends not to see.

But then, the moment is gone.

“We can give ya the tour!” adds Scout.

“Before you do...” The Sniper finally removes himself from his perch reclined against the wall. He offers a firm, wry handshake, fingerless glove and all; the trigger callouses on his forefinger apparent on the back of your hand. “Sniper.”

It takes you a moment to find the right name. “Specialist.”

He releases your hand, mouth giving a knowing twitch. “You’ll get used to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do provide a bit of feedback if you have the time. I have drafts of the first few chapters written, but if there's anything you'd like or hope to see, please let me know! This is my first time doing a reader-insert, and I believe I should certainly take the reader's thoughts into consideration, since we have the opportunity, no?


	2. A Place To Be

Your little entourage offers a tour of the whole facility, and you try to file away the locations as well as possible—workshop, showers, rec room, medical wing (here, Medic leaves the four of you to prepare the equipment), mess hall, armory, and single dormitories. Simple plaques label each room: _Engineer_ , _Soldier_ , _Heavy_ ; a few have been covered, deliberately scratched off, or—in the case of Scout—defaced (with a permanent marker addition: _The Incredible_ ). Pyro skips off with what could be construed as a muffled farewell when you reach the end of the final hall.

“This one’s yours,” says Engie, gesturing to the last door, yet unlabeled. “There’s a key taped next to the handle inside; don’t lock yourself out, now.”

“Thanks—I appreciate it.” You smile, reaching for the doorknob.

“Not a bit of trouble. We’ll see y’all for dinner after you’re done with the doc?”

“Can’t skip dinner with work first thing tomorrow.”

He nods, readily returning your smile. “We’ll see you, then—come on, Scout.”

“But—”

Engineer wraps a hand around the boy’s shoulder and nudges him down the hall. “Let the lady get settled in!”

You miss Scout’s reply as you close the door behind you and sag against the grey frame. That was… a lot. You rub a hand over your eyes. There will be more before this day is done, but you’re _here_. Perhaps not home, but a… a new place to be, if all goes well.

With a gentle shake of the head, you open your eyes. There’s a simple cot with a metal bedframe along the wall across from you, and a single window to the far left, on the same wall, sunlight brightening the barren, wood floor. Your room is just large enough for the bed, a plain, cheap-looking wardrobe to your immediate right, and your crate—as promised—in the center of the room, with a few feet of floor-space to spare. You can get one shelf under the window for your books, you think, and one on the far right wall. The rest… well, you can figure that out later. At worst, you’d just make some room in the wardrobe—it wasn’t as though you’d brought many clothes; you needed little besides a spare uniform or two.

You set your messenger bag on the bed, mattress creaking under its weight, and gaze at the cloudless cerulean skies visible out your window. It’s all pleasant enough: sunshine, a wooden floor smelling of old pine, and the tang of iron in the air. Books in your crate. The relief of a job. Excitement of something new.

But the iron bars which cross the glass remind you immediately that this isn’t a dorm or a new apartment. No matter the behavioral regulations outside combat, for all intents and purposes, this is a war-zone.

You flip open your bag, and inside, buried beneath a few sentimental items and all of your unmentionables, is your Lancaster Charles. It’s only been in your hand for the last six months, but a top-of-the-line, .577 caliber, four-barrel beauty was nothing to sneeze at. You run your fingers along the black gunmetal, tracing smooth contours down to the mahogany-and-bone inlaid handle—a gift from Miss Pauling and the mysterious executives after you passed the exams, when your temporary contract was drafted. You’d very much like to strap the holster to your thigh now, feel its comforting weight as you make your way to the medical suite.

But the doctor probably would not appreciate an armed patient in his operating room. You shiver, and replace the pistol at the bottom of your bag. Best to just get the procedure over with, whatever it entailed. You hang your hat on a hook beside the door as an afterthought, peel the key from its place beside the doorknob, and square your shoulders to meet the medic—in his domain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I could go either way, but does anyone prefer accents to be spelled out phonetically in dialogue?


	3. What Are You Made Of?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for: needles, surgery, drugs, blood, and general medical unpleasantness in this chapter.
> 
> Also, stem cells were not discovered in human cord blood until 1978, though research on cells that have the ability to produce other cells began as early as the mid-1800s, and the first bone marrow transplant was successfully performed in 1968. I've set this fic sometime around 1969, and work on the assumption that TF2 takes place in an alternate universe--albeit one very much like our own. I figure respawn could not exist without some stem cell something, and research would probably have been done through private funding for RED and BLU--so, not readily available to the public, but definitely plausible in this universe.
> 
> I am aware as well that one does not need a spinal tap to obtain adult stem cells, but since when does Medic really go the least invasive route?

It did not take long to re-locate the medical suite. You knock on the huge, steel doors, wondering at the chairs lining the hall—there was hardly a need for a waiting area in a mercenary base. Or… so you hoped. Prayed. Desperately.

“ _Ja_ , come in!”

You push the door, and enter a miraculously pristine space, white and silver and sterile. The doctor glances up from a gurney that’s been fashioned into a rolling table.

“Ah—there you are! Shall we begin?”

“Yeah…” You eye the table. Sharp things. Needles, scalpels. _Bone-saw_.

“ _Wunderbar!_ There are gowns hanging by the door. You may use zhe privacy curtain in the far corner.”

You do as instructed, tearing your eyes away from the wicked-looking instruments to fetch a white hospital gown (with team-color ties—you wonder if it might be in slightly poor taste) and step behind a curtain, half-drawn around one of the sick beds. With a sigh, you unbutton your shirt and fold it neatly on the cot; you’ll be out in time for dinner; how bad can it be? The bra goes tucked between the folds of your shirt.

You hesitate on the button of your jeans. “How much?”

“Shirt and brazier off, please—the main modifications will be made in zhe chest cavity. Be sure to tie the gown in the front, not behind you.”

Good. Fine. _Chest cavity_. All right. “Thank you.” It’s a simple matter to shrug the gown over your shoulders and tie it shut. You’re grateful that you can leave your pants on for now, strange as it is that he allows them in the first place—if this was a trip to your regular physician, you wouldn’t… well. This isn’t a regular trip, nor your regular physician, is it? You draw yourself up with a deep breath, push the curtain aside, and cross to the waiting doctor and gurney.

Your brow furrows when you realize Medic is positively vibrating with ill-concealed excitement. “You are ready?”

“Yes.” Your stomach turns.

Blue eyes peer over spectacles. “You are unsure.”

“Well—”

He nods. “You do not trust me. It’s as well you shouldn’t.”

“It isn’t anything personal, I—” It registers. “It’s _as well?_ ”

The medic shrugs, elegant coat pulling across his shoulders. “You have met me only today.”

“Yes.” The embarrassed heat leaves your cheeks. Trust in a doctor was usually implicit. _Demanded_. This—this was refreshing. “Exactly. I… trust that my employers want me alive. I—would you mind telling me what you’re doing, what you’re going to do… the steps, before you do them? I know I won’t be able to crane my neck to see the whole time, so—”

He arches a high, dark brow. “You have a medical and scientific curiosity?”

“No. Well—I’m extremely curious about respawn, but it’s mostly that I like to know what’s happening, because it’s my body—so I can be ready. If you have some scientific secrets, that’s ok, just—you know—for example, if you’re going to take my pulse at the wrist, just warn me that you’re about to touch my wrist?” You’re babbling; you can feel the warmth creeping up your neck again, and your gaze drops.

“Oh.” Surprise flickers across his features. “This has been a problem before.” Medic’s eyes are distant and unreadable through the spectacles.

“The family doctor was always good, but hospitals—”

“You will find that this is not _ein_ hospital.”

You cannot tell if he means this well or ill. You try to swallow your unease. Maybe, it just _is_.

“In any case, I will respect your wishes, and explain what I can. Please, get up on zhe gurney.”

You do as he says, with more than a little relief. “Thank you.”

He nods, waving a careless hand. “ _Bitte_.” He turns away and strides to a deep sink, where he rolls up his sleeves and scrubs to the elbow in hot water. You _assume_ it’s hot water. No one said the base _didn’t_ have hot water. After all, everything in this damn desert was hot, even if there was no water heater available. “This means you prefer not to use anesthesia, _ja?_ ”

You freeze, halfway to the sterile pillow. “Uh—”

“Not that I was planning to use it anyway, of course. Local anesthesia, yes—complete, no.” He shakes the water from his hands crisply over the sink. “Not enough out here to use it on every little procedure anyway.”

Your head drops back. “This isn’t that major, then?” Something in your gut says otherwise. Something like _respawn_ doesn’t happen without some kind of major modification; you don’t need a PhD to tell you that.

“Mm?” He shakes his hands and returns to your side. “Oh—relatively speaking—yes. Quite major. But! It is very simple, _und_ I’ve had time to perfect it with eight others before you. Heart replacement and syncing up your body’s electromagnetic field and DNA sequences to the respawn system—very simple, really.”

Oh, gods. Oh— _oh_. Heart—

“Don’t look so nauseated! You’ve lost all your color.” Medic’s lips draw back from his teeth in a feral grin, shoulders fixing themselves in a gesture of ease; he paces around the gurney as though desperately trying to offset some manic intensity. Or perhaps, it was simply the ease of a predator, those relaxed shoulders and quick steps—lazy and buzzing with well-contained excitement.

All speculation disappears in a bolt of white fear when he lifts a scalpel.

You almost miss his next words: “Of course, there will be a general examination first.” He sets the blade down with a click, and the dull roar leaves your ears as swiftly as the tide. But he’s still grinning, and it’s downright _fucking disconcerting_. “Now, before we begin, are there any general health concerns?”

There’s still a buzzing in your skull to the tune of two words: “Heart… replacement?”

“Oh, it’s very simple—” There he was saying that again and, oddly enough, it’s just as reassuring as it was the first time. “It’s just that your heart, as it is now, could not withstand _die über_ -charge.”

Your poor heart is hammering in your chest. “What if RED doesn’t keep me on?”

He peers over the round spectacles. “You wish to stay, do you not?”

“Yes.” Even as the word leaves your mouth, you’re re-evaluating.

But it doesn’t matter; you can’t go home.

“Then you’d better make sure they decide to keep you, _ja?_ Leave zhe medicine to me.” He fetches something from the table—a thermometer, and you open your mouth automatically to let him tuck it under your tongue. “I will also check your pulse.” You nod and offer your hand, palm up, relaxing as much as you can against the sterile pillow behind your head, and close your eyes as soft fingers enclose your wrist, finding the pulse-point with ease, just under your thumb. You count the rhythm under your skin, the thrum in your chest as it slows to a regular interval. One, two, three. His hands are cold.

But then, so are yours.

You hear Medic step back, and open your eyes. He’s recording data on a clipboard, and after a moment, takes the thermometer from you and adds that measurement to his paperwork. He sets it aside in a sharp, graceful movement. “Now, I will map the incision—not that I require it at this point, of course, after doing it so many times, but you might be interested.”

You find you don’t care if the doctor has done it ten times or one-hundred times; as far as you’re concerned, no one should be free-handing a surgery. “Please.”

Medic’s fingers find the knot on the gown and unravel it without trouble. And, it’s at this very moment you realize that all of your general physicians have been women.

The sudden urge to bury your face in the sterile pillow behind you is overwhelming.

But, Medic pushes the edges of the gown away from your chest with polite, careful hands, and his gaze is detached, clinical. He fetches a marker from the table beside him, and presses chilly fingers against your collarbone. His eyes are an icy, grey-blue, and the edges crinkle handsomely behind his spectacles in concentration. Dark hair falls across his forehead as he finds the dip in your clavicle and draws his forefinger down about three inches. Medic uncaps the marker, keeping the lid between his teeth, and presses the tip to your skin, just above the finger marking his place. “I will use a sternal incision,” he says, remarkably clearly considering he did nothing to remove the marker’s cap from his mouth. He draws his index finger and the marker vertically down, between your breasts, and you close your eyes, trying not to squirm as the felt tickles your skin, trying not to think about exactly what getting to your heart through that flesh and bone was going to entail— 

There’s a whir and a pricking on your scalp, and you fight to keep still, jaw clenched tight. _What the hell—_ Your eyes open to a pair of tiny, black orbs and an unassuming pink beak. You blink. “Medic?”

“Hm?” He glances up. “Archimedes!”

Archimedes. Greek. Scientist or mathematician? That sounded right. You make a note to check the books back in your room to see if any are relevant—

“Go on, this is a workspace!”

But you can feel tiny talons settling on your scalp, hair loosening from its tie. The little, warm body nestled above your forehead is… strange, but not unpleasant. It’s certainly the most comforting aspect of your experience so far, not that it takes much to out-do medical facilities.

Medic sighs. “If there are two things Archimedes cannot resist, it’s hair and flesh wounds—and I’m afraid you’re about to be irresistible on both counts.”

“ _Flesh wounds?_ ” The little, black-marble eyes leave yours.

A genuine smile crosses the doctor’s features. “Oh, yes; Archimedes loves open wounds—he thinks they’re a fine nesting space. Probably the warmth, though why he doesn’t mind getting blood in his feathers is beyond my comprehension.”

Well. If he doesn’t mind having he bird in a sterile space, neither will you. “If you don’t mind, and he stays out of my—er— _chest cavity_ , I'm all right if he stays.” It’s a fine distraction from… what will occur. “I’d like it.”

Medic blinks, brow arching, and you nearly ask if you’ve said something wrong, but he waves a hand. “I doubt he’ll want to move now that he’s comfortable. Are you quite ready to begin?”

You take a deep breath. _Money. Steady job. Self-sufficiency. Heart-fucking-surgery._ “Might as well.”

“ _Gut._ ”

There’s a needle in his hand. How the hell did—

“I will inject a local anesthetic.”

And the needle is in the flesh of your chest, just below your left arm, fluid seeping under your skin, liquid and hot and prickling and _oh god_. He could have given you more warning.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“It will take several seconds for full effect. I will also administer a muscle relaxant to make zhe incisions easier, and take the necessary bloodwork for respawn. In the meantime—”

The cool, efficient press of his hands checks your lymph nodes, breath, heartbeat, and things you’re not even sure about as the warmth tingling under your skin seeps into the muscles across your chest. Distantly, you feel another pinch as Medic’s hand comes away with a syringe of dark, red—blood. That was blood. Yours. You feel a little light-headed. Archimedes flutters and fluffs his feathers, tugging at your hair and coiling it. You close your eyes.

“ _Gut,_ ” you hear again. “Now, I will begin the incision.”

Not entirely sure you’re relaxed enough for this, you open your eyes to see Medic, gloves (team color again, and this time you're absolutely _sure_ it's in poor taste) securely pulled up to his elbows, tossing some alcohol swabs aside. Your chest was cold now. Or very hot? Or—no longer there? You hadn’t felt him disinfect the area at all.

“You may wish to close your eyes—or watch. If there is any sensation whatsoever, alert me immediately.” Cold eyes peer seriously over round spectacles. “I can’t have you flinching and puncturing something we want to keep intact.”

Yes. _That_ would be a disaster. You frown.

At least he didn’t bullshit you about concern for your pain.

You do as he suggested, attention shifting from the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the utmost focus clear from the turn of his lips, to Archimedes’ talons just above your brow, the sensation of the dove’s breath and fluttering heartbeat as you hear tools, metal against metal, scrape somewhere to your left.

And then, Medic begins speaking.

Your focus wavers a bit—the heady sensation of what you suspect is the relaxant flooding your spine and clouding your thoughts in a pleasant, rosy fog. Better late than never.

First, he comments on the procedure itself—what makes the technology function, making the recipient of the improved heart invincible when combined with certain energies. Fascinating, if you could pin down your thoughts, wandering like some elusive butterfly. And then, the respawn, with too much science to understand much besides the fact that Medic needed a blood sample, and a few stem cells that he’d retrieve after surgery.

Stem cells. The only stem in your body you know of is the one _connected to your brain_.

Needless to say, your happy stupor is now effectively shaken.

“And I imagine they explained the nature of _die_ respawn system—your cells and body will be retrieved and reassembled from the memory of the machine." The excited notes of his voice are almost enough to drown out the stomach-turning _grinding_. "Quite, _quite_ remarkable. However, I do not recommend getting sent through the system any time it is convenient for you; the process takes several minutes that the team might need support, and it often causes unpleasant side-effects: nausea, headache, muscle pain, dizziness... but, they are a low price to pay for staying alive—or, at least, not staying permanently dead. You’ll still feel zhe pain of death, and that should deter you from abusing the respawn too often.” He pauses, and you hear the clink of metal. “Of course, there are times when it is less painful to die.”

A shiver crosses your skin, prickling along your arms and your scalp. Archimedes ruffles his feathers.

And then, Medic begins chatting about his doves. Plural. How the hell you hadn’t noticed earlier (they were apparently kept not far from the windows) was beyond you. Or perhaps not so: you’d been anxious to get this done. You take a breath to ask about his reasons for keeping them here.

“I would not recommend speaking right now, Specialist.”

You immediately abandon the attempt.

“I’ll let you know—it’ll only be a moment.”

Specialist. It would take some getting used to, indeed. If it weren’t for context, you might forget that the name was meant to be attached to you at all.

You creak your eyes open when a whirring hum reaches your ears, careful to keep them fixed directly above, never straying to where Medic worked. The source of the gentle sound is immediately apparent—a strange, metal apparatus in a harness, emanating waves of… _something_ , faintly colored (or was it merely light to aim the machine? Like an x-ray, or—)

“Ah, _willkommen!_ Welcome back.”

You blink, flicking your eyes to the right. Medic looks quite pleased with himself, bouncing on his heels as he strides to your side. “What?” Your voice creaks.

 _Shit_. It feels like someone dropped a toolbox, or maybe a bloody _car_ on your chest. You clamp your mouth shut, next breath shallow. Better.

“Hm? Oh, _ja_ —you weren’t watching. You were dead for a moment while I replaced your heart. How was it?” His grin, absolutely _manic_ as panic rises in your chest.

But you clench your jaw and stuff it down. Bastard. He was doing it on purpose. _Bastard._ You repeat the word until the rising terror is gone, shoved aside in favor of irritation. You’re alive. You never have to do this again. _Alive._ Bastard. He could have _led_ with ‘alive.’ Or maybe ‘surgery was a success.’ Not: _hello, you were dead for a bit—was it nice?_

You draw another breath—it catches, as though your chest is suddenly too small.

“ _Und_ , I took the opportunity to obtain your stem cells with a lumbar puncture—” He takes note of the blank look no doubt creeping over your features. “Oh—you might know it as a spinal tap.”

 _Spine?_ How did—no. You don’t want to know. Good enough to have been unconscious.

Dead.

Oh, _fuck_ —you signed up for this, didn’t you? You can’t even remember it. Like being asleep, and not even that. Just—here you are.

Really, not all that bad, is it?

You close your eyes and let the soothing hum of the beam flow over your chest. The medi-gun technology, you realize now. There hadn’t been any diagrams in the paperwork, but you should have known it immediately by description; you hadn’t expected to see it until tomorrow on the battlefield, but if it saves you from a long recovery period… “Now what?”

“Now, you will heal and take deep breaths. You’ll need your full lung capacity for tomorrow. With zhe medi-gun, you’ll only need to be here for a few minutes more.” He grins. “Amazing, _ja?_ ” Evidently he doesn’t need a confirmation, because he breezes right on. “You’ll see it again on the battlefield. Now, it operates on half power, to ascertain proper healing. Fast healing can cause… side-effects unwelcome in a controlled setting—nausea, excess scarring, weakness in the muscles. On zhe field, it does not matter. I’d like to have you in full, top performance for your review, in this case.”

You draw a large breath, wincing as your lungs seize in protest. Your stomach is… quite empty. “And then dinner?”

He chuckles. “Oh, yes. Healing consumes a great deal of energy, even at an accelerated pace. On the field, you’ll want to pack sandviches.”

…Ok.

“ _Und_ you may look at the incision area, if you would like.”

You do.

Blood, lots of blood. _Bastard._  All over your chest, some of it still glistening under the light of the medi-gun, the rest faded to sticky rust, painting your stomach and breasts with angry streaks and careless droplets. But—the skin is closed, neatly, a lovely eight-inch, dark scab under neat, black stitches, fading beneath faint, ruby light.

There are rusty stains on your pants, too, _asshole_. “Any tips on getting blood out of denim?” You ask dryly.

“ _Ja._ ” He smirked. “Don’t wear denim.”

The gust of a sigh passes your lips.

“Deep breaths.”

You draw another, frowning as the oxygen feels foreign still.

Medic nods in approval, and waves a hand over the table. “Ask zhe engineer about your trousers.”

“Thank you.” Your brow arches, but you’re not at all convinced that it couldn’t have been avoided; his eyes, after all, are still entirely too amused.

“ _Bitte_. Welcome to Teufort.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did work a little with portraying the accent in dialogue--please let me know if it isn't effective.


	4. Dinner and Assets

Medic made you keep a plastic ball in some sort of tube afloat with only your breath before declaring you fit to depart. Breathing feels more natural now, and your chest seems too small yet for whatever the hell the doctor put in, but the scars are little, pink lines now, and the pain minimal. One long, eight-inch line between your breasts, and little rays branching from it where each stitch had been looped. Sensitive, yet, but well. All-in-all, better than lying in recovery for a month, you suppose.

The first thing you want to do upon being cleared and told to re-dress is take a bloody shower. Then, upon getting the pungent iodine scent off your body and its coppery residue off your chest, you want only to go back to your room, flop onto crisp sheets, and stare at the ceiling for about an hour. Then, you believe you’ll be fit to eat.

But when you draw back the curtain, Medic stands genially on the other side, lips upturned in a smirk. Back straight, coat crisp, white— _impossibly_ so, and you realize with some annoyance that he had to have donned a new one—spectacles high on the bridge of his nose. “Shall I escort you to the mess hall?”

“I’d really like to shower first.” You don’t bother adding that the others had already shown you the mess' location.

He ignores your pointed look. “You may miss dinner in that case. It’s already eighteen-hundred hours.”

A stifled groan. There go the pleasant dreams of a nice, hot shower on your tender incision site. Your fingers find the rusty iodine stains showing at your collarbone. “May I have a cotton ball and some alcohol for a moment, then?”

“ _Ja_ , _ja_.”

After a quick bath of sorts, you join Medic by the doors, just as he flips the manila folder on his clipboard closed. He gives you a strange, sidelong glance, and you’re not sure what to make of it before he strides to an adjacent office and deposits the records on a large desk, locking the door behind him.

You don’t question it. Instead: “Dinner?”

He nods. “Yes." But his expression has not changed—intent, a focus you cannot pin down. "And, needless to say, anything that occurs in this room or my office…” He gestures to the now-locked door; the plaque on it reads simply: ‘Medic.’ No name, no indication of a PhD. “…is strictly confidential and will not be repeated. Anything you might tell me will not leave this room.”

“Except to go to the Administrator’s desk.” You’re not stupid. This is a good opportunity, not a free one.

Medic isn’t disturbed in the slightest by your remark. “Of course. But you need fear no immediate breach of confidence. _Und_ , if you have any problems here, you may contact Miss Pauling with your concerns.”

This is… odd. You open your mouth to reply, to ask—

“There is a phone,” he continues. “Upstairs, on the second floor, near the stairwell. Pick it up, dial zero. You’ll reach Miss Pauling.”

You nod dumbly. After all that—? Have you passed some sort of test? Now that you were compatible with the system, did that mean he actually considered you a member of the group? Actually dedicated to the job?

Or, worse—did he anticipate such trouble?

But he only returns your nod and strides out the door, holding it open for you to follow. You do, silent.

“Do you have any questions?” Medic asks amiably as you walk together down the sparse halls.

Only a thousand you aren’t sure how to broach. “What’s for dinner?”

Medic laughs outright. “Hungry, Specialist?”

“More than a little.” You’re glad the moment has passed. Whatever it was. “We had lunch just outside Phoenix—that was hours ago now.”

“I don’t know what Herr Engineer has planned, but it will no doubt be satisfying.”

“Does he usually cook?”

“ _Nein_. We take turns every other day. If anyone has a problem with what you have selected, they can make a sandvich.”

You chuckle. “I like that.” _Sounds like home._

The scent of something warm and sweet reaches your nose, and your stomach growls. You resist the urge to walk faster toward the half-open door at the end of the hall, fingers curling and uncurling at your sides. “Where does it come from? The food.”

The medic adjusts his glasses slightly, pushing them down the bridge of his nose, eyes fixed on the hall ahead. “We receive a shipment every two weeks of standard ingredients. At first, it was—ach—what do you call army food? In zhe cans and zhe foil.”

“Charlie-rats.” You shake your head. “MCIs, I mean.”

There’s a glint in his pale eyes, and you nearly bite your tongue. Shit. That’s not common knowledge is it?

“Ah, yes! They shipped MCIs first.” You decide to keep your mouth shut, rather than ask why they didn’t send A- or B-rations in the first place. Perhaps he had been lying from the start, hoping you’d expose clues about your origins. Is this because he recalled your response to the soldier's initial greeting? Perhaps you’re on the paranoid side. “We convinced Miss Pauling to see about real food, and here we are—milk, fruit, relatively fresh vegetables, lunch meats. Anything else you need, you can find in town, not that we’re exactly _welcome_.”

“So Miss Pauling said.” Your best innocent tone: “Something about property damage?”

He waves a hand. “They still accept our money at zhe grocery market.”

You push into the mess hall; a kitchenette and long table with rickety chairs, smelling delightfully of—

“ _Pancakes!_ ”

The engineer chuckles, scooping several off an iron skillet and onto a platter in the center of the table. “I’ll take that as a sign you don’t mind ‘em a bit.”

The spy, sitting closest to where you stand, mutters something about bastardized crepes.

“It’s perfect!” But you freeze, grin still reaching your eyes, even as your stomach sinks somewhere under the floorboards. The spy’s eyes are unreadable, fixed and unyielding, pinning your feet where they stand.

This isn’t _for you_. You just happen to be here.

And thank gods for that; they couldn’t know. Bloody hell—you hope they can’t. You shake your head. As though enjoying the thought of pancakes—even the revelation that they may be a comfort to you—could really give away your region, your home-town. The very thought was foolish; surely your voice would give away more. But you sober, smile only gently gracing your lips.

“Thank you.”

The last thing you need is a breach of contract on the first day, intentional or otherwise.

“You’re welcome, darlin’. Now don’t just stand there—pick up a plate before these hooligans eat it all.”

You don’t have to be told twice. _Pancakes._ You pile them onto the nearest free plate with gusto—a steaming stack of flapjacks.

“Gonna leave some for the rest of us, Spesh?” Scout says around a mouthful.

“Don’t pay him any mind!”

“Scout, do not talk with your mouth full!”

“Spesh?” You wrinkle your nose. “ _Really?_ ”

The boy waves a hand at you and the spy, swallowing his food. “I’m workin’ on it.”

Your plate now full of delectable breakfast-for-dinner, you hesitate, looking over the table. Nine chairs. The spy sits at one end, Heavy at the other. Scout is nearest you, with two empty chairs beside him. Demoman and Soldier sit opposite. The sniper is nowhere to be seen, and Medic has not taken a seat, but rifles around the refrigerator instead.

“Sit next to me!” Adds the scout helpfully, and you stifle a sigh. Better than standing about like an idiot. “Snipes prob’ly isn’t comin’ anyway.”

You set your plate down. “Does he have something against pancakes?”

“Nah,” He laughs. “Just likes bein’ alone or somethin’.”

“He might like it better if you weren’t so loud,” observes the spy dryly.

Medic sets a lager at the place next to you, beside the heavy, and grabs a plate from the stack. “Beer?” he asks.

“Tea?” You return hopefully, hands resting on the back of your chair.

“Iced tea in the fridge,” calls Engineer over his shoulder.

“Thank you!” You open the white, subtly curved unit—it looks as though it’s seen better days, perhaps before being impacted by a rocket—and quickly find the pitcher.

“Glasses are in the cabinet to your left.”

“Thank you, Spy.”

He gives a curt nod, rolling an unlit cigarette between his teeth.

You pull one down, fill it, and replace the pitcher among several bottles of beer, a carton of milk, and several brown, unlabeled bottles not unlike the one Demoman drank from earlier—and, you notice with a quick glance over your shoulder—very like the one he was drinking now. Your brows draw tight in a frown; there's barely a clink at the table behind you.

An awkward silence has fallen over the mess hall, disturbed not at all as you take a seat at last between Medic and Scout, who steadily pours syrup over his pancakes until the plate becomes a soupy mess. The others eye you none too subtly over their meals. Your hands are slick with sweat as you grab a fork and knife from a pile beside the platter.

_Why_. Things had been going fine.

The responsibility of carrying on a conversation shouldn’t be yours, should it? You cast your eyes to one side, and the heavy politely returns to his pancakes. The medic, on the other hand, stares openly, brows arched, neck of the beer-bottle pressed between his fingers. You shiver, and try keeping your eyes on your food instead, laying claim to the syrup as soon as Scout gets his hands off it.

“So—” The demoman fixes his eye on you, and your hands almost lose track of the syrup, dripping steadily onto the plate. “—tell us what you’ve got, lass.”

You manage to tip the bottle up before things get messy. “What I’ve got?”

“Aye—your weapons, lass—assumin’ you don’t go in fists swinging. Not tha' there’s anything wrong with that.” He winked. Not a blink. A definite wink, as though he’d long since grown accustomed to telegraphing his body language to convey the gesture.

“Well.” You set the bottle of syrup aside. The rest are attentive, now, open, and you catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. “Shouldn’t we… see if anyone else is coming to eat?”

Engineer steps between you and the Scout to put more pancakes on the table. “Pyro already got their plate, and Sniper probably won’t show ‘til we’re gone.”

“So, out with it!” The soldier clanks his fork on the table. “What’s your layout?”

Layout.

_Loadout?_

“Well—my favorite is my Lancaster Charles.” You clear your throat unnecessarily, and immediately feel as though everyone at the table knows it was superfluous. “A—uh—howdah pistol.”

“British weapon,” Heavy observes. “Not common military issue—is old.”

“Strange choice, considering we’re not shooting tigers in the colonies.” Spy lazily pinched the unlit cigarette.

Scout stuffs another forkful into his mouth. “That Heavy’s close enough to a tiger if ya ask me. Or maybe a bear.”

That earns a round of chuckles.

You taste your pancakes with amusement. Damn—you haven’t had such a meal in quite some time, not since you left home. Fluffy and golden and sweet. Warm like a summer afternoon.

“So you’ve got a big pistol—what else?” demands the boy.

“A ballistic shield,” you say more readily. Why conceal things now? At least they aren’t asking personal questions. “Collapsible; experimental, according to Miss Pauling, but as much as I’ve used it, it doesn’t seem to have any problems—doesn’t catch or anything.”

“Almost as good as running in bare-knuckles!” The demoman tips his bottle back with a grin.

You’re emboldened. “I think you’ll like the third one best—you’ll likely appreciate it.”

“Well, go on, lass!”

A grin. “Gyrojet Conversion Pistol.”

Heavy’s face lit up immediately. “Is new! Have not gotten my hands on one yet; may I see it, please?”

His excitement is contagious. “Sure—you can come by after dinner if you’d like, or you can see in the morning?” You notice you’ve powered through half your pancakes already, and there’s no small amount of relief when Engineer steps over to fill the platter again.

“Ya mind cluing the rest of us in, if you’re done geekin’?” Scout grumbles.

You twist your fork, an extra energy to the movement. “Basically, it shoots tiny, bullet-sized rockets with extremely low recoil, so I can use it with my shield.”

“WHY USE TINY ROCKETS WHEN YOU CAN HAVE A BIG ROCKET?”

You try to ignore the saliva on your forearm and pray it missed your plate. “Well, Soldier, why would I have big rockets if you already have a rocket launcher? We don’t need two.”

The soldier taps his chin. “You have a point, maggot!”

You can feel a long day coming tomorrow, if the man insists on maintaining the drill sergeant routine.

Demoman looks a little blissful. “Bullet-sized explosives?”

“13mm-style chamber." A shrug. "It’s not an explosive so much as a rocket-propelled bullet. Light chamber—and I can convert the pistol into an assault rifle with a detachable barrel and stock. Lightweight and ready to go.” You grin.

“How accurate?” asks Heavy.

“At about twenty-five yards, you start to lose it, but with a ballistic shield—”

“You can get right on top o' th' bastards!” Demoman slaps the table, cackling, and takes another drag from the mouth of his brown bottle.

“That’s the idea.” You reach for more pancakes and refill your plate. “The microjets build acceleration over time, so the best place for me to fire is mid-range.”

Medic nods quietly, finishing his lager, plate still empty. “Perhaps you should accompany Herr Scout for the first hour. See how well you can defend him to zhe point—he’s fast enough to get in and out of range, while you hold position.”

You nod, trying not to pour the syrup too dejectedly. Might as well resign yourself to a _very_ long day tomorrow.

Perhaps he’d be a bit different on the field.

“Aw, man, this is gonna be great, you just watch!” You nearly choke on your first bite as Scout slings an arm around your shoulders. “You get to watch me work! Trust me, I’m the best team playa’ here. You’re gonna love it, Spesh—”

Or not.

You glance sidelong at Medic, who simply grins, giving a half-hearted shrug as he helps himself to the platter. Jerk. You reach for your tea—and very nearly choke on that, too; syrup and pancakes and sweet tea is almost as bad a decision as pancakes and beer.

_You should have bloody well known_. If the southerner knew where the tea was, then he made the tea, and when he said ‘tea’, it was sweetened iced tea, no doubt about it. But even as you try to get the sickening amount of sugar and syrup out of your mouth, you can’t help but feel that much better for a little taste of home. _A_ home, at any rate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a fairly campy canon, I'm doing an unusual amount of research. 
> 
> The weapons cited herein are quite real, and, rather period-accurate. The Lancaster Charles howdah pistol, is, however, about 100 years old at this time--though I imagine an improved version has been crafted for the Specialist. Who doesn't want a four-barrel pistol with enough power to stop a full-grown tiger?
> 
> The Gyrojet, on the other hand, was very much developed in the 1960s, though it was not immensely popular, and never made it as a standard-issue weapon in the US. There were assault rifles, flare launchers, and derringers made with this technology as well, and few remain today. 
> 
> MREs (Meals, Ready to Eat) weren't the packaged meal of choice for the US military until 1981. Starting in 1958, troops were given wet food in cans (instead of the dehydrated meals that exist now), with a brown, foil accessory pack. They were commonly called "C-rations" (or "Charlie-rats") by the troops, though they were not the C-rations that had existed before, among A-, B-, D-, and K-rations, which ranged from fresh, to kitchen-ready, to high-energy food. Instead, they became MCIs--Meal, Combat, Individual. ...You see, I was just going to have the Specialist reply: "MREs," but this is more accurate to my 1969ish setting. 
> 
> The more you know. (Research is my jam.)


	5. Watch the Learning Curve...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for: respawn sickness (vomit, slight delirium, etc), blood, and graphically described injuries in this chapter. 
> 
> And--the more you know--Plexiglas has been on the market since 1933, and Kevlar was developed in 1965, but wasn't commercially produced until the 1970s. Again, I'm thinking with the amount of money RED and BLU have to throw at things, they'd have Mann Co building with that stuff asap. 
> 
> Man, I'm learning a lot of stuff.

Morning came early, and with it, the relief that you had spent the last month rousing yourself before the sun. Pale, grey light flickered in the window, followed by the scent of a clean uniform—a high-collared jacket that buttoned left over the breast (brilliant, team RED—a damned target if you ever saw one), short, black trousers, and high, black, steel-toed boots. Then, a quiet breakfast, filled with nervous flutters and white knuckles around your steaming mug. Finally, at six-thirty precisely, you fetch your weapons and report to the Spawn Room.

Half the complex faces the gravel pit, which is—as you understand it—the point of fighting this private war. Most days will be spent spawning from the western room: a complex, containing a vaguely capsule-shaped machine (respawn, of course) and personal weapon lockers, followed by a short, steel tunnel leading to the quarry: the war-zone proper. Others, you’ll report to the south-facing spawn, an identical room linked to a sealed office, in which—as you understand it (this a common disclaimer for your life now, as most of the reports you were given in briefing had more black marks than a public FBI casefile)—important documents regarding technologies and team tactics are kept. A maze of underground storage areas then leads to the space where the RED and BLU bases connect—a covered bridge, dirt, and a water source that provides the bases’ running water and electricity; you’ve studied the maps extensively.

But, the only thing that matters now is the former: the map that had been labelled “Badlands.” You close your eyes and envision the choke points, five in total. Today, you’d be taking them back.

The sniper and spy are both already present when you arrive. The former gives a nod, which you return, and the latter… merely lights his cigarette. No matter; you still haven’t finished reviewing your mental image of the terrain.

You stop beside a bench and deposit your weapons. Muscle memory brings the Lancaster’s holster to buckle around your thigh as you envision every detail of the Badlands you can recall until, at last, you sigh, and force yourself to focus on preparing properly. On your belt, there is room for a stock, a barrel extension, and your Gyrojet pistol. The latter belongs higher on your waist, not long enough to interfere with the Lancaster. Its accessories, on the other hand, slide across your front, tuck just above your left trouser pocket, secure and out of the way. The ballistic shield, now a little, Kevlar rectangle no larger than the cardboard box your boots had been delivered in, clasps at the small of your back. Perfectly fitted and engineered, indeed.

“You ‘bout ready?” Scout asks, tapping the edge of a baseball bat on each of his heels. He’s slung a short shotgun over his shoulder, belted a pistol on his hip.

A nod. Your eyes are drawn to his headset—remarkably like the sort of noise-cancelling monstrosities you’d find on someone working with airplanes—but this set keeps one ear free to his surroundings.

“Oh, yeah—” He snaps his fingers. “We gotta get you a thing.”

Before you can ask, the engineer presents you with a much smaller device, one that fits right against your ear. “Here we are; this way, we don’t have to yell at each other all the time. Press the button on the edge there when you’ve got a message fer us; you don’t have to hold it, but you’ve gotta press again to stop. Otherwise, we’ll hear every nasty thing you’ve got to say to those BLUs until you hit respawn.”

Your fingers find the button. “One click to talk, a second to stop?”

“That’s the idea.”

Over the loudspeakers: [ _Mission begins in twenty minutes._ ] You blink.

“’s just the Announcer—or the Administrator… whatever ya wanna call her. She keeps score and stuff,” Scout supplies.

You nod, and take a seat on one of the benches before the boy tries to strike up another conversation; you’re quite content to simply watch as the other mercenaries file in and take a moment at their lockers. The heavy carries his minigun with him from the base—presumably because it is far too large to fit in the standard locker. He sets it further down your bench gingerly, never out of his sight, as though it were a child in need of close, constant care. From the locker, he draws a shotgun, looking comically small in his giant palms, like it is no more than an overlarge pistol. He greets you quietly, but pays little mind, checking over every inch of his weapons.

The demoman, despite his heavy drinking last night, seems to suffer no hangover whatsoever this morning as he strides straight and graceful to his locker. “Mornin’!” Two weapons that appear to be different styles of grenade launcher and a third—some sort of club—are drawn from its depths... and then a bottle that he immediately tips to his lips. Perhaps the man is simply never sober; it would certainly explain the mysteriously missing hangover.

Medic is next, medi-gun already strapped to his back, as he had promised yesterday. It seems slightly different from the healing mechanism in the medical suite, but the—you decide to call it a “nozzle”, like the bit on the end of a firehose—the nozzle is very much the same, this time portable with the aid of a bulky power supply mounted like a backpack. From his locker, he draws a vicious bone-saw and a gun that… You can’t suppress a shiver, creeping along your spine and prickling your arms: it appears to be loaded with hypodermic needles. The German moves more slowly than he did in the lab, but carries himself as though the medi-gun weighs absolutely nothing.

The pyro is last to arrive, toting a flamethrower, each step a rolling bounce on the thick soles of their boots, mask and flame-retardant suit already on. A pistol—or flare gun, perhaps—joins their arsenal, alongside a fireman’s axe. Apt? Or ironic? The idea of a fireman wielding a flamethrower takes you back to Bradbury’s _Fahrenheit 451_ , and you cut that thought as short as possible.

[ _Mission begins in fifteen minutes._ ]

“Now, I think we can all agree that if RED’s giving a new class system a try,” Engineer addresses the whole room, “so is BLU. Better be on our guard.”

You frown. “How do we know what they’ll be experimenting with?”

“ _Surely_ you were briefed,” the spy scoffs.

You rise from your place on the bench. “I know both teams have the same classes. But if mine is experimental—”

He blows a puff of smoke in your direction. You refuse to cough. “They already know and seek to match it.”

“You’ll be seein’ a double of yourself on the field,” Engie explains. “Be prepared. Color’ll tell you everything, but the first time, it might be disconcertin’ to shoot something what looks like you—but you’ve gotta move past it.”

You think wryly of every time in your life you’ve deigned to look in a mirror. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

[ _Mission begins in ten minutes._ ]

Your brow furrows. Another thought: “Is it psychological warfare? An illusion?”

There’s a collective shrug.

“Somethin’ like that. For all we know, when they look at us, they see themselves. I don’t know if it’s about keeping identities secret or trying to cause hullabaloo—just be prepared.”

“So, are you ready to take this gravel pit, maggot?” demands the soldier.

You nod firmly—as though there’s really a choice. “Ready when you are.”

“You only have a week.” It’s the first you’ve heard the sniper speak since yesterday afternoon. “Betta make it good.”

[ _Mission begins in sixty seconds._ ]

Scout bounces on the balls of his feet. “All right! Stick with me, an’ you’ll do great, Spesh!”

“Could you maybe… _not_ call me ‘Spesh’?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, better not to nickname ya when you might just disappear, right?”

Your jaw clenches.

[ _Mission begins in thirty seconds._ ]

“Aw, who’m I kiddin’? You stick with me, there’s no chance they’re sendin’ ya home. I’m a freakin’ professional! Keep the bullets off me, and we’ll have the first point in a jiffy—think ya can handle it?”

[ _Five._ ]

“I can handle anything.”

[ _Four._ ]

“Tch—

[ _Three._ ]

“—we’ll see, _mademoiselle_.”

[ _One: **go!**_ ]

Nine mercenaries bolt out of the gate like horses at the starting gun, and you, close on Scout’s heels, draw the ballistic shield from your back. It fixes tight on your forearm; folded, it’s barely enough to cover your torso, but with a firm flick—it cracks into place. A black, fortified wall of Kevlar and Plexiglas—just enough of a window for you to peer through. But there appear to be no enemies in sight just yet, as the sniper and spy peel away from the group.

The little bugger just ahead is fast, you’ll give him that, and dry, desert air presses down against the Kevlar, keeping firm pressure upon your arm, dragging your body. Should’ve left the damn thing closed if you expected to keep up. Scout dances ahead, turns the corner alone, and your heart hammers hard against your chest, almost loud enough to drown out his whoop, and the first, deafening shot.

The rhythm of your blood stutters, hand closes around the grip of the Gyrojet, tugs it free from your hip. At least the seven a.m. air has a cool edge to it. You lead with your shield-arm as the shots continue in earnest, and skid around the corner of the nearest building.

Ahead: hard-packed dirt; a low-roofed wooden structure houses a silver point, showing bright blue—how long has this fight continued, a stalemate, that it can be marked like the corners of a game-board, its mercenaries the pieces, pawns scattered along the open, orange yard?

Scout doubles back. “Too slow, fatty!”

There’s a retort on your lips… and then you see the BLU heavy, every bit as large as that of your own team, a spitting image, spinning six barrels of sure death. Your knees meet packed dirt, hard, and you set your shield firmly before you, covered on one side by Kevlar, and on the other by the building's corner at your shoulder. “Scout!”

“I got ya!”

He ducks behind you as the bullets hail, sending tremors along your forearm, Gyrojet in the hand curled at your thigh, useless, but you’re braced—alive, _alive, oh Almighty_ —

“Sp—” Saliva on the back of your neck.

“What—”

“ _Welcome, mon ami_.”

Vomit. All over the floor. Head spinning. Floor—ceiling—concrete—aluminum—wood—gunpowder. Heave. Your arms tremble; drop to your elbows. Your nerves are on fire. Electricity along your skin. It’s bile, on the floor; your stomach—breakfast was—

[“Where the hell is the specialist? I left her right out—”]

[“THAT MAGGOT OUGHT TO BE ON THE FRONT LINE.”]

[“Does it matter? We can win regardless; let her stew.”]

Your teeth clench against the smooth tones in your earpiece. _Mon ami_. You strike the floor, weak, blinking water from your eyes—you’re a _fucking mess_. Kneeling in a pool of bile and tears, all trembling limbs and aching head. The last memory is… the voice. The BLU spy—not your own. Of course. It—

[“Specialist. _Specialist_. _Spezialist!_ ”]

You press the earpiece with trembling fingers. “Yes?”

[“How is zhe respawn sickness?”]

“ _It’s shit_.”

He’s laughing. [“You’ll grow accustomed.”]

[“First time’s the worst, lass!”]

[“Now gather yourself and get out here—we’ve captured the first point. Go right from zhe respawn doors.”]

“Ok,” you croak, and press the button once more. _Ass_. You spit on the concrete, grimacing, pushing to your knees, then onto shaking legs. You draw a deep breath.

Well, your nerves don’t appear to be firing all at once. But you _do_ smell of vomit.

 _Fuck_.

You clamp down on the urge to heave again and carefully, with slowly strengthening steps, move for the double-doors. Your weapons are precisely as you had readied them, on hips and thigh.

Right now, you’re beyond wondering exactly _how_.

When you reach the left hall, you draw the shield from behind—but this time, you leave it compact along your forearm, settled and gliding with the breeze as you begin a steady jog, then heighten the rhythm to a sprint. It’s as though the gunfire had not ceased since that first shot: no sound but explosions, whistling rockets, the distinct crack of a pistol.

“Aboot time!”

The demoman backpedals across the field to your side—the next point is up a set of rickety stairs, upon which you can just see the brim of Sniper’s hat. With a snap, your shield is at full height, and your ears strain to filter out the _noise_. Scout scrambles around the building—a shot ricochets off the corner of your Kevlar and you duck behind, flinching. Too much movement through the window—red, blue—an explosion, and the ground trembles.

Demoman crouches with you, and still he has to shout. “Tha’s not our Sniper up top! Scout’s gonna try tae hit the stairs, draw him and whoever else is up there out and down—I’ve set up some stickies. If it works, it’ll blow ‘em sky-high! Then, we rush. Cover my back as we go!”

You nod. But silence in the midst of such a din feels foolish, so—“Yessir!”

He laughs, a raucous sound. “I’m not a sir, lass!” The demo thumps you on the back, and your shield rocks against cracked dirt. “I—”

Three, rapid-fire explosions, and you draw the Gyrojet from your side.

“NOW!” He’s already moving.

You scramble up after him, turning a tight arc, scanning the field. Scout, Demo ahead, dashing for the stairs, cackling and whooping like madmen. From the corner of your eye: blue—you draw your shield tight, fire—

The bullet whistles, whizzes, strikes the BLU soldier full in the chest, but not before your shield shudders with the force of a shotgun blast.

Breathe, breathe, fire.

He drops, hissing, and you swear you can hear his faltering curses. Blood blossoms across his coat, blue becomes purple, maroon, _red_. A gurgle. Dead.

Breath leaves your lips in a gust. Heat presses upon your head from a merciless sun.

“Spesh, get up ‘ere!”

Your feet find the stairs, creaking. There are scorch marks, and there are… _bits_. You try not step on them as you climb in reverse, shield covering each step. Practiced, easy.

You find yourself overlooking the complex, plumes of fire and explosions close, but their causes are not immediately seen; red and blue uniforms scattered about the field. Blood soaking into thirsty, cracked soil.

A hand on your shoulder. “I’ve got the stairs, lass—cover Scout on th’ point!”

Automatic reflex brings you to the hot edge of the silver point, a simple desire to follow orders; you kneel just in front of the scout, standing with his shotgun at the ready. Nimble fingers draw the barrel and folding stock from your side, snap and screw the implements into place—your Gyrojet becomes a rifle in seconds, braced above black Kevlar.

There’s an enemy scout rushing the structure, and you fire—miss four times, connect once, and the boy shudders, keeps running, blood streaming down his arm. Fire again, reload, crouching low, clicking the clip into place as your shield shudders, and _crack!_ Through the Plexiglas window, you see the BLU scout fall, unmoving, as you return the barrel of your Gyrojet to its place. Two steps behind the corpse is your team’s Soldier, waving cheerfully, rocket launcher tucked under one arm. He takes a position out of sight.

When you look again, there’s only a pool of quickly drying blood in the rusty soil where the BLU scout’s body had been. It’s almost a relief.

The din of your heart is softer now.

“’bout another thirty seconds!”

Until this point is considered won and the team is able to move on to the next, you suppose. The immediate horizon shows no sign of BLUs yet—

“Bloody _hell_ —”

An explosion crashes behind you—too close: the breeze stirs your hair, and you crane your neck around—

“Hold it!” Scout pushes off your shoulder to find Demo on the steps, clutching one arm close to his side, swearing absolutely blue—

“—fuckin’— _no_ —stand on the POINT, ye git!”

_CRACK! CRACK!_

Demoman tumbles backward off the wall, hands ineffectually clasping blood and skin and tattered cloth—

It’s suddenly cold. Very cold, indeed. Your own visage grins at where you crouch, Lancaster Charles between its hands, shield almost ineffectual, commanded only as the two-handed weapon allows, covering the BLU’s non-dominant side. “They told me I’d see you.”

Her voice—so very like yours; confident, hard syllables from your lips, twisted in a cruel smile. Your mouth goes dry—

 _BANG_.

[ _The control point is being contested!_ ]

Buckshot throws itself against the BLU specialist’s shield with a clatter, scatters all over the point, and Scout pumps the lever on his shotgun. “Don’t think just because you’re a girl, I’m gonna—”

_CRACK!_

Your ears are ringing, moisture trickling down your cheeks, bitter scent of iron in your nose.

“Headshot.”

The wet on your face is— _oh god_.

She drops her clip and inserts the next with a flick of her wrist.

You launch forward, bringing your shield over your head, dragging the rifle behind, holsters clacking on the scorching metal of the point beneath you, forearm nearly giving way as you and your double tumble, catching the edge of her riot shield on yours, growling.

“ _Shit_ —”

Tangled limbs.

_CRACK!_

You don’t think the shot did anything but prolong the incessant ringing. Roll, find the edge of the building, and—

_Snap._

Her heel breaks the skin of your cheek, cracks against bone. You splutter, and respond in kind, slamming your shield down on both her legs, drag yourself upon it, ignore the twinge in your arm under the straps, ready your Gyrojet—

_CRACK!_

Pain, searing, choking, blood and sweat dripping into your eyes, and you aim, bleary—her body is _right there_ , and she can’t move—

You squeeze the trigger. Fire, fire, fire, fire.

[ _RED has regained control._ ]

She’s stopped struggling, and you let yourself fall, head dropping onto Kevlar. You set your gun aside, press the sweating palm across your eyes until you can make out the corpse under you, face-down, twisted to one side, bleeding scarlet through her coat. Smells of gunpowder and iron. Four holes. Bone shows white.

Your stomach heaves, but you force the bile back.

Your cheek stings, half-numb as your body tingles in heady waves. Shock. Your counter-part’s bullet is buried in your shoulder, and there’s no way you’ll lift the shield without doing further damage. The pain is still keen, blood draining onto the Kevlar and Plexiglas, ruby in the morning sun.

“Medic!” You cough. Spit. More blood.

Fucking hell.

“ _Medic!_ ”

The ringing in your ears subsides, and you lift your head—and immediately drop it when your shoulder screams a protest, one that might have manifested on your lips. You’re beyond caring.

[“Specialist, ya’ll have the point—what’s your status?”]

“ _Medic_ —” More blood and saliva on your chin and shield.

You take a deep breath, and the edges of your vision darken. “MEDI—” Coughing, spluttering, no good. Your ears tell you there’s a battle raging somewhere; of course he can’t hear you.

[“Specialist?”]

The ear-piece. _The ear-piece_. You raise your dominant hand. It trembles, but you manage. The smallest click at your ear: “Medic,” you wheeze.

[“Ten-four, ma’am—hold tight.”]

You let your eyes drift closed against the sun’s glare on the point—just for a moment.

“Keep your eyes open, Specialist! This does no good if you are already _dead_.”

You pry them open to a familiar hum, a pair of black jackboots, the blood- and dust-stained tail of a white coat. He kneels, tilts your head up with a gloved hand gently beneath your chin. “Medic!”

“ _Ja, ja_ —hold still. Zhis will be quick, but it will not be painless.”

“Wh—”

The beam of the medi-gun is hot this time, boiling, your skin tugging, wrenching, _screaming_ —and then—

You breathe, only the lingering traces of copper on your lips.

“ _Ausgezeichnet_.”

[ _RED Team has captured the point_.]

“Come!” He offers a hand, and you take it, pulling yourself up on unsteady legs. The corpse of your double, you note, is gone, and you stoop to retrieve your rifle. When you straighten, you’re confronted with an infectious, eager grin: “We have another point to capture.”

It _might_ be a post-healing boost of serotonin talking, or, perhaps, the adrenaline that comes with a small victory, but you find you’re suddenly quite eager to do it all again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transl: Ausgezeichnet - Excellent
> 
> Please do let me know if the action sequences are clear, since they're going to be a fairly large part of the fic--I want to make sure they're enjoyable. In fact, if there's anything that could be revised (I have looked over previous chapters and tweaked a few things in the meantime), please let me know!


	6. ...It's a Steep One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING again for: some respawn sickness, needles, blood, and injury
> 
> I wish to extend my deepest thanks to all of you--for reading, for the kudos, and for your lovely comments. You have all been extremely helpful, and I'm always glad beyond words for your thoughts and insights.

The thirty minutes set aside for lunch are the shortest of your life. At the sound of the bell signaling the end of the first round, the mercenaries each headed for their lockers and produced all manner of sandwiches, canned soups, and bottled water. You immediately realize two things: first, that you have not been assigned a locker, and likely will not unless your contract is extended, and second, that you have no food.

Your stomach protests this fact with a muffled gurgle, and you sink, resigned, onto the nearest bench, then proceed to unbuckle your shield and set it aside. You stretch your legs and twist your hips in an attempt to stave off cramps, blood still thrumming hard through legs that do not yet realize that it’s time for rest.

Nearby, Scout slurps some kind of soup directly out of its aluminum can, and you press your head between your hands, deciding to study the distinctly inedible concrete instead as your stomach calls for something— _anything_. You frown. There’s no way in hell you’re asking if you have time to run upstairs; hopefully they just won’t notice you were too stupid to think about packing a damn lunch. And after Medic had suggested it yesterday, too.

Yes, you can swallow your hunger before your pride; it goes down easier.

And there’s a sandwich dangling just under your nose, between your gaze and the concrete floor. You blink. …Still there. You follow the arm offering the tasty morsel to find the engineer, smiling gently. “Take the sandwich, darlin’.”

You do. “Thanks.” You bite your tongue. ‘Thanks’ isn’t exactly enough. “I—um. Forgot. I was nervous, and—I—well—I didn’t think about it.” It smells like turkey. Your stomach gargles again. “I appreciate this.”

He chuckles, waving you off. “I figured. So I made a couple, just in case.” He produces another and joins you on the bench. “Well, go on! We ain’t got much time.”

You both start in. It’s turkey. Maybe chicken. Truly, the sandwich tastes all the better for being shot at and healed and exhausted and half-starved after respawn this morning.

“Now, for tomorrow,” the engineer says between bites, “I suggest you make somethin’ tonight, and bring it down with ya in the mornin’. It’ll keep ‘till lunchtime—you can use my locker if y’like, ‘til the week is up.”

“Thank you.” Now you _really_ don’t know what to say. You—well—you’re touched. He doesn’t have to go out of his way for you. Hell, nobody in this room even knows your name!

“I’m—I—thank you. I mean it.”

“ ’S no trouble,” he assures in that steady drawl.

There’s a silence, interrupted only by the others’ conversations, hushed in this moderate space. You’re not sure you want to strain to hear them—after all, the biggest point of conversation must be you. Namely, the embarrassing amount of time you’ve spent in respawn this morning. Eight times you’ve awoken here, each more tiresome than the last.

“So—” you say, to occupy the hush “—your turret. It’s… nice.”

Oh, boy, you’re on your A-game today, aren’t you?

But the engineer just nods, gaze distant. “Sure is. Designed ‘er myself.”

You inwardly heave a relieved sigh. Either he isn’t much for conversation, or he’s the most polite person you’ve met in your life. “That’s pretty impressive—how long did it take?”

He finishes his sandwich, considering. “Oh, the first one… I reckon the prototype took roundabout three weeks to finish—it had some problems, but another week or so took care of those.” He passes a fresh bottle of water, and you give a grateful smile.

“Seems like a short amount of time.”

He shrugs. “I try to be practical—”

[ _Take places to begin the next round._ ]

Engineer nods, tips his hardhat. “We best get to it.”

* * *

 In minutes, things become precisely as chaotic as they’d been earlier. Scout runs circles around the first point, dodging a BLU soldier’s rockets, stumbling, already bloody from shrapnel. Your demoman has been sent to respawn, and Spy is nowhere to be seen. Medic is busy somewhere to your left with Heavy and your own team’s soldier—no help there. And the _damned sun_ is absolutely merciless, sweat beading on every exposed inch of skin, wicked away only where your clothes cling close.

Nothing for it but to rush the soldier, you suppose, and bring your shield to the ready, prepared to tackle the rocket-happy blue bastard to the cracked dirt—

 _Thup_.

A bullet severs the soldier’s spine, and your eyes follow the angle to Sniper’s silhouette nearly twenty feet back, in a second-story window. You nearly wave a signal of appreciation, but a voice in your ear shuffles you forward—[“Get t’Scout!”] You make the push, free from any pursuit of rockets, and duck into the low shelter beside the boy.

“Nice ‘a you to show!” he grunts, pumping his shotgun, and the din from Heavy’s whirring weapon nearly drowns out the click.

Both the Russian giant and Medic guard a by-way ahead, beating unseen adversaries back with cover fire, the doctor healing every injury as it occurs. Heavy stands, unflinching, bellowing a great, joyous war-cry to the heavens, and Medic holds just behind, white coat stained with scarlet flecks of blood, its tail whipping gracefully around his legs, each movement deliberate, every step deceptively light across soil and sand. It’s… well… it’s bloody well fantastic.

BANG.

“You gonna watch the meat-shield all day or what? Enemy Pyro and a Demo comin’ up left—nine o’clock!”

The Gyrojet is in hand before he even finishes speaking. You crouch, spot the BLUs—coming up fast, indeed—and hold position.

“How much heat can that thing take?” Scout draws his pistol and fires three times at the demoman. His flak jacket soaks up most of the damage—but a bloodstain shows on the blue fabric at his shoulder, not that it slows snarling the man at all. You block a grenade with your shield, send it bouncing away, but the blast rings in your ears.

“It’ll take enough!” you shout over the incessant ringing.

Scout’s mouth is moving. You’re not very good at reading lips between trying to hold your ground and keeping an eye on the enemies almost at the point, but you think you’ve gotten the gist—“Pyro’s yours!”—just as he dives from the shelter with his scattergun.

Somewhere, a voice—The Voice—echoes: [ _The control point is being contested!_ ]

And the pyro closes in. Expressionless black holes form a dead gaze in a mask too like some great, black skull, an uncanny contrast with the cheerful sky-blue rubber of their suit. The pyro pumps their trigger, no touch of emotion in that empty black. You crouch as the flames rush, flaring and flickering, to wash over your shield in a stomach-turning inferno.

“Going in hot” has never meant half so much to you as it does in this moment, nothing behind your Plexiglas but white-hot plumes of certain doom.

The Kevlar heats, but holds.

It’s only a moment before the pyro moves, left and right, attempting to flank you with that steady blaze, but you’re ready, twisting on your heels, tilting the riot shield just so, holding steady, refusing to be pushed even as the air is sucked drier than you thought possible, fogged with kerosene and biting heat. There’s no room, no way to see around the column of flame and Kevlar to find Scout—successful or dead, you have no way of knowing.

The crackle and rush of flames can’t drown out the muffled frustrations behind that mask, a stream of distant growls and hissing curses beneath twin filters. By the time you realize this signals a wrathful new tactic, it’s too late.

Flames curl around your shield’s black edges as the pyro rushes with the force of an angered hound, all blunt, forward trauma and gnashing teeth in tongues of flame. Knocked flat on your ass, the only thing to do with the weight of a mercenary and flamethrower baring on your body is to brace both boots as high under the shield as you can and kick, tucked into a ball, all the force your prone body can muster.

You’re screaming again. But your arm tugs free of the shield’s straps, and all goes tumbling away—pyro, flamethrower, Kevlar—and you throw yourself to the right, roll desperately down, off scorching metal onto hot sand and soil, smoke in your lungs, arms burning, the lingering traces of singed hair offending your nose. Up, up legs firm on the cracked ground—you’ve lost the Gyrojet, but you yank the Lancaster from its holster. Orient, find the target—

 _CRACK_. _CRACK_.

The suited figure slumps, ceases stirring. You can hear the hiss of the gas tank. You cough, blink lingering tears and dust from your eyes. Adrenaline sets your limbs trembling as your feet take your place on the point, fingers of one hand caressing the barrel of your pistol.

“Nice job.” Scout jogs to your side just as the Administrator announces the point reclaimed.

The acrid scent of burned hair won’t leave your nose. “And what the hell were you doing all that time?” You bend to retrieve the shield—quite charred, but structurally sound—and Gyrojet. Both find their places on your belt, as the weight of the howdah in your hand is the only thing keeping your fingers remotely steady.

The boy scowls. “Oh, high ‘n mighty already, huh?”

You open your mouth to apologize—you’d just had a near-death experience, after all (one that would have been horrendously slow and painful at that), and it had sharpened your tongue—but he barrels on. “The demo gave me trouble, alright? Now let’s move before more show up. There’s a back way they might not use; we can get ahead.”

A quick nod, and he starts off, taking care that you are close behind. You dodge around the now-captured structure and double back near a concrete wall, close alongside some long, wooden storage shed. The shadowed enclave is a relief, but the inside of your mouth still seems caked with dust, each breath a hot, choking irritation. Scout slows near the building’s far edge, and steps back against the concrete bricks as you approach in his wake.

“Check the corner—I’ll cover our rear. If things are clear, we’ll make the push.”

“Can do.” You creep ahead, hands wrapped around the howdah, sidling carefully along the aging wood’s edge—it’s hot on your back, even in shadow. You take a breath, and peer around.

The BLU sniper covers a corner across the way, but appears not to notice your slight movement, focused down his sights on a skirmish between your team’s heavy, who has abandoned his mini-gun for his mighty fists, and the enemy scout, wildly swinging his bat, dodging this way and that. The path to the point, should no one else arrive, appears clear.

“Scout—”

 _Click_.

The barrel of a revolver, pressed cold on your forehead.

“Any words before I send you back to respawn, _mademoiselle?_ ”

You jaw clenches. “ _Spy_.” Fingers twist, useless, around the handle of your pistol, wanting nothing more than to drop it and put your fist straight through that blue balaclava.

You’re sure the intent shows on your face.

But he only grins. “Ah, yes—I’m afraid I did not properly introduce myself before. Spy for the Builder’s League, at your service—of a sort.”

Every bone in your body screams to fling yourself forward, to crack this bastard’s head on the concrete wall behind him in payment for that first meeting. The metal pressed between your eyes says otherwise. Instead, you think back… where had things gone wrong this time? “It was never Scout.”

“ _Non_ , I’m afraid not. He took care of our Demo well enough, but I took care of ‘im.”

You know you cannot raise your Lancaster to a suitable angle of injury before he can pull the trigger. This piece of shit’s just playing. Extending your life as long as he can for the sake of proving his superiority. “ _Fucker_ ,” you hiss. “I’ll be back with a bullet just for you.”

He laughs outright. “Bold, but I think not, _ch _è_ rie_. I have business besides a game of cat-and-mouse with a second-rate hireling.” The spy presses the revolver so hard that you can feel the imprint of the barrel on your skin, its steel edge digging a ring between your eyes. “Now, you are ready, _non?_ ”

Your teeth creak, blood racing hard beneath your skin. “Yes.”

You close your eyes.

You’re kneeling on the floor, heaving, every nerve sparking, _on fire_. You curl your fingers against the concrete, nails scratching and catching, and try to focus as your stomach seizes again. There’s no trace of any earlier mess, but you waste no time in replacing it. You shiver, trying with everything you have to keep the rest of your stomach’s contents down.

“Your brain is testing your nerves. It’s very like waking up to learn you were sleeping on your arm, _ja?_ ”

You spit, and blink blearily around the room—Medic stands only a few feet away, tall and composed as ever. Had he just come through respawn like that? “To an extreme,” you agree, and spit again. _Shit_. Needles crawling from head to toe, each beat of your heart pressing them tight beneath your skin. “Yeah. I… hadn’t considered.” Your nails dig into your palms as you try to force your stomach still, pressing a hissing breath between your teeth. Out of the watery corner of your eye, you see the doctor nodding, observing your misfortune. Exactly how long has he been there? You squeeze your eyes shut against the next wave of nausea.

“It won’t stop, no matter how many times you’ve gone through respawn, but, eventually, you’ll know what to expect, and it will not be as troublesome as once it was. Zhe vomiting, on the other hand, will cease at some point—let me know when it does.” A ring of genuine interest in his tone. Never pity. “I’m trying to determine whether it is a reaction to overstimulation and pain, that, once you’ve become used to the sensation, is no longer triggered, or if it is a mechanism not unlike the electric sensations—or something else entirely. Perhaps psychological.”

“Mmhm.” You push yourself upright, on your knees, and open your eyes to find Medic peering down at you.

“Shall we?”

You draw a deep breath, nod, and stand, trying not to let him see the last tremors as they leave your body. Medic nods, slight, and draws a canteen from his belt. “Drink.”

Water. Lukewarm, but you feel worlds better without the grit and acid sticking to your teeth. “Thank you.”

He nods, replaces the canteen, and draws the wicked weapon you had eyed this morning. “Syringe Gun,” he supplies, his grin baring straight, white teeth. The fluorescents glare on his spectacles.

Your mouth goes a bit dry.

“Due to your… particular feelings about medicine, you may want to take care to avoid my BLU counterpart—for this reason.” The Syringe Gun clicks as a hypodermic needle slides into place, golden liquid catching the artificial light. “It is quite painful, and, should the plunger depress, you’ll find your limbs quite useless. Among _other_ things.”

You have no idea how to reply to that, but you’re quite sure you don’t want to know about _other things_. “Ok. Yeah.”

Medic chuckles, and leads the way toward the field. “How did you die zhis time?” he asks over the distant din of battle.

Your blood runs hot, lips parting in a sneer. “Spy,” you grumble. The smug curl of his mouth is fixed in your memory. “Damn bastard cornered me and put a bullet between my eyes.”

“Ah.” The doctor considers you over his spectacles. “And he was the first this morning to kill you, _ja?_ ”

There’s a thrumming in your skull, one dangerously close to fury. “Yes.”

“Don’t waste your time now.” You want to protest, but Medic raises a gloved hand. “But—hold on to that anger; remind me tomorrow, and we will hunt your spy. For now, Soldier and Scout will need your help on the point.”

Sensible. _Frustrating_. But… you can’t help your curiosity. How, exactly, would he aid you in your vendetta, and why? You simply nod. “All right.”

“Excellent. Lead the way, _Spezialist_.”

* * *

 The day rushes in a swift flow beneath the bright, Arizona sun after that. By the time the final round is declared won—by your team, much to your relief—you’re stiff and sore, half-dragging your own sorry ass to the Spawn Room.

Scout stretches his back until it gives an audible pop. “Well, ya don’t suck,” he declares.

It certainly doesn’t feel so, after losing track of the number of times you’ve been sent through respawn this afternoon. “Thanks. I’ll try to not suck even better tomorrow.”

The engineer chuckles. “Y’ weren’t all that bad, fer day one.”

“Yes, you managed not to drag us down—congratulations.” The spy was already halfway through his cigarette, a lingering fog settling around the suit-jacket slung over his shoulder.

You decide to just keep walking as Engie frowns. “Give the kid a break. She did fine.”

“More time off ze field than on? Barely acceptable.”

You can feel your cheeks heat as you shuck off your coat, nearly to the door. Engineer catches your elbow. “You remember where the showers are?”

Oh. Showers. “Yeah.” You’re covered in sweat and a fine layer of that orange dirt. There had been time for a shower last night, but—

“Good.” He turns to corner his (rather rude, but not _incorrect_ ) teammate.

—the showers were in one long, tiled room, each one barely separated by short partitions (not unlike those that divided urinals), and if the entire team was…

Actually, perhaps you aren’t quite as filthy as you thought. You _had_ just come through respawn not twenty minutes ago.

HAD NO ONE CONSIDERED THIS?

You’re standing awkwardly in the hall, making for no destination whatsoever now. Scout, Demo, Soldier and the sniper are already gone. Yes—yes, you’re absolutely sure you can wait an hour or two. You can just… shuffle back to your room with your equipment. Surely no one will say anything? Then, you can shower when the rest—

“Hrrdrmrph.”

Pyro stands at your shoulder, head cocked, flamethrower in tow.

“Hey.” You smile weakly. After today, those black, empty lenses are more terrifying than simply disconcerting. “Are—”

They hold up a gloved hand. “Mr mrr muhrmph mrmr.”

You strain to hear, try to decipher the syllables, run the memory of the sound through your head. “Um—I’m sorry. I didn’t quite—”

“Mrrph.” Pyro sets the flamethrower carefully on the concrete and displays both overlarge hands, and then flashes them in a rapid series of movements that—sign language. It must be sign language.

“Oh—I’m sorry. I can spell ok, but I’m not—”

They start over, forming letters with one hand. Y-O-U—C-A-N—S-H-O-W-E-R—L-A-T-E-R. Stop. I—D-O.

“Oh!” You start to spell a clumsy ‘thank you,’ but Pyro seizes your fingers. It’s your turn to tilt your head. The mercenary takes your hand, presses the tips of your fingers to your chin, then tilts it perpendicular from the wrist until your palm sits parallel to the ceiling. They let go, expecting. You repeat the movement, and pyro claps their hands with a pleased hum. _Thank you_.

Well, now you know one phrase.

“I’ll do that, I think. I’m not sure I… how do they manage to shower in the army, do you think?”

Pyro shrugs.

You nod. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Do you—er—” Maybe you shouldn’t ask. “Do you always wear that?”

A vigorous nod. “Mrmuph.”

“Ok.” You know you definitely shouldn’t ask why. Pyro moves to continue down the hall, but you touch the shoulder of the thick suit—caked with a fine film of dust. “When will they all be done?”

A-B-O-U-T—A-N—H-O-U-R.

You give the sign for ‘thank you,’ with a grateful smile, and Pyro returns a thumbs-up, and disappears down the hall with their flamethrower.

“Mighty Defender speaks Pyro’s language?” Heavy takes up the entire doorframe to the Spawn Room. Exactly how long he’s been standing there is unclear.

You bark a short laugh. “I certainly don’t feel mighty, but yes—well—I can spell.”

He thumps your shoulder, and it doesn't jostle your aching muscles nearly as much as you expect. “Ah, is not so bad! You have never seen war before, _da?_ ” You shake your head, and he nods. “This—this is all very different. I would say I am sorry you must be here, but you chose it.”

You open your mouth to reply, but the man hurries on: “I do not ask why. For your family, for yourself, to run away—does not matter. You have skill—will become a great credit to team!” He shrugs massive shoulders. “Not there yet. But you will, if you decide to stay.”

You’re halfway to tears before you bite your tongue. “I—I really—”

“Not for thanks.” Heavy’s brow forms a serious line. “Just work hard, and be sure to make dinner for yourself. No one cooks today, and you need to eat. Easy thing to forget.”

“Thank you—I will,” you promise, not sure if you mean you’ll continue to work hard (because he’s very right, you want to be here, even after the respawn sickness, the backstabbing asshole, the bullets, the smoke, the frustrations and the heat) or if you mean you’ll be sure to remember supper, or both. You’re just… _grateful_ , and again left with no way to convey even a fraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been interest in expanding this fic to include other romances, and it's definitely something I want to include, but for now, I think I will continue with just Medic, so that further planning will continue to be straightforward; I'll work others in when I've finished this one, I think, so that nothing gets mixed up, and updates can continue to be fairly timely.


	7. Sanguinary Cerebration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for: blood, injury, and delirium in this chapter. 
> 
> PTSD, or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, is not going to be a central theme of this fic, but I thought I ought to at least touch on it and some of its symptoms. Regardless of respawn, the protagonists regularly experience traumatic/stressful situations. After some time, it's not strange to assume (with all of TF2's special circumstances), that most of the mercenaries will work past it (or not experience it at all) and react far differently to stressors than most people would. 
> 
> All of this said, PTSD is nothing to be ashamed of, should you experience it at any time in your life. This is a perfectly legitimate reaction to highly stressful circumstances and situations, and is very treatable should you desire to seek help. 
> 
> This chapter touches on only one of the possible symptoms thereof.

The deadbolt inside the shower hall tells you that, yes, someone had thought of your situation, and you can shower in peace. There’s a long, metallic shelf on the nearest wall for your towel, clothes, and soaps—alongside a few the men had left behind: Prell, Ivory, and the like, things readily and cheaply available. Black tiles cover the room (an odd choice in color, you note again; any bathroom you’ve ever seen has been white, or, if the family in question was on the up-and-up, some mod shade of orange or blue), floor to concrete ceiling. Concrete. It occurs to you tonight that if there’s ever a tornado (you’ve been assured that this is highly unlikely, no matter how similar the terrain and weather might seem to parts of Oklahoma), this room might be your best bet for shelter. As you shrug out of your uniform, orange dust cracks and crumbles to the tiles.

And things suddenly make sense: the black of the floor doesn’t show a mess as readily.

You try not to dwell on that thought (or look too closely between the tiles), and select one of the partitioned stalls. It all seems relatively clean, from the showerhead to the silver drain. The spout isn’t fancy, offering a simple, general spray—no rivulets or simulated rain here—but it is mounted high enough above your head to be comfortable; you quite appreciate that, closing your eyes and tipping your face to the gentle rhythm as it washes hot over hair and skin. You sigh, deep and sharp through your nose as the water washes down your face. It’s… been a day. Quite a day, indeed.

Respawn is what makes this for you, you think. That death is only temporary makes all the difference. _The ultimate transcendence._ There has been little time to think about it, until now, under the steady rhythm of water washing the day’s dust and grime off and away, kneading the stiffness and strain from your muscles. You have defied death today, experienced the impossible—as you will tomorrow, and the day after.

The thought sends a thrilled tingle running along your skin, and you turn to fetch the soap.

As though a testament to your newfound immortality, along your sternum runs the scar, just a thin, faded line now, a little disconcerting in its perfectly parallel precision. You trace it with a finger. Sensation has completely returned to the tissue around it, but the scar itself seems sensitive only to pressure. No matter. You have yet to experience the _über_ -charge Medic had described, but if it’s anything like the miracles of respawn and the medi-gun, it will be well worth everything.

You work some shampoo into your hair, taking care to massage your scalp, trying to work the sandy grit and sweat away and down the drain. That’s one constant: dirt. You get just as filthy as you would have where miracles of science didn’t snatch you out of the jaws of death. The other is, simply, pain. Most deaths today were so fast you hardly had time to learn what tore you away from the sun-drenched battlefield—quite thankfully. You close your eyes, rinsing the suds from your head. The alternative was… slow, terrifying, leaving a memory that worked its way under the skin, a warning against repeating the mistake.

It was just before the conclusion of the first round. The air had stilled, disappeared into cloudless skies, taking any relief of the morning’s cool with it. Merciless, pale heat on your scalp, soaking into your scarlet uniform coat, instigating longing thoughts of shade and cold water…

The final point. You had to reach the final point. Sniper’s voice had come over your earpiece, told you the others were making the push. You could offer support.

You’re too focused to check the corner before you skid around the concrete edifice.

There stands the enemy engineer, sunlight catching on his goggles. You raise your shield, yet folded—but he’s already pulled the trigger. Your ears ring. There’s a steady rush in your head, a tingling in every limb, and you sag against the near wall, fibers of your coat catching on every imperfection. The BLU’s mouth is moving, but your focus wavers, and your legs give way to the cracked dirt beneath you, sleeve sliding, clipping, tugging.

And now, the _pain_. Your arms have already seized your middle, and you clench your teeth, prying one hand from the scorching knives in your gut, to know, to see. It comes away shining crimson, your palm sticky. Even if you can draw your pistol fast enough… the taste of iron is on your tongue. And so, you raise your chin, ready for the killing shot.

It does not come.

The Engineer eyes you a moment as your body shudders in a racking cough, and, with a curt nod, hefts his half-finished sentry and disappears. Tears sting the edge of your eyes. “ _Bastard_ ,” you spit, as one rolls hot down your cheek, and wrap both arms tighter around the holes peppering your stomach. No point in counting them. No point in looking. With each breath, it seems a thousand jagged shards of glass shred every inch of your torso from the inside. Your lungs seize on the next mouthful of hot, desert air and you splutter, blood spraying scarlet past your lips into the too-bright air. You make the next breath shallower, but your stomach, your chest, your skin, still burns, still slices, and everything is so very red. Cold creeps at your fingertips as they curl into the tattered holes of your coat.

You’re dying.

A trembling hand, slick with blood, slips, trips over the button on your ear-piece. “ _Medic!_ ”

Those two syllables are agony. You spit, trying to push the suffocating taste and scent of iron from your lips. Blood and saliva dribble, hot, down your chin. Wipe it on the back of your hand; sticky crimson catching the light like a merry mobile of stained glass and crystal. “Medic!” White sparks dance at the edge of your eyes, and waves of darkness lap not far behind. Can’t they hear you? Isn’t there someone, _anyone?_

You press back against the concrete until you can feel the impression of each uneven ridge and stone, gather your legs to stand upon cracked dirt, and—

Hot, white pain rips through your torso, and you slump, sand and dust prickling your cheek. “ _Med_ —” You cough, spots bursting across your vision, blood spattering the orange soil.

There’s a sound ringing in your ears—not gunshots. Not the din of the battlefield. Sensation returns, the stream running over your shoulders, a comforting embrace smelling of soap and earthy well-water. It’s… a cry. Above the rush of water, a human voice, wailing, echoing along the tiled walls and…

Your mouth is open, throat raw. You. It’s you, making that sound, the ungodly call that’s raised the hair on your neck. You clamp down on it, cover your lips with both trembling hands.

 _Shit_.

You breathe, let the water do its work, wash the memory off and away. Focus. Focus on the sensation of the water over your shoulders, of the silver faucet, the ebony tiles. There’s one at eye-level, cracked, a hairline fracture through the black, crooked, like a spider’s web. Inhale. Exhale.

 _Oh, hell_. What if someone had heard?

You hold your next breath, listen. There appears to be no sound from the hall, no valiant attempts to break down the door and rescue you from… yourself. You shake your head, creep silently over to the bolted door, and wait, breath baited, count out the seconds.

Nothing.

Your gust of breath is a sigh of relief now. Good. Perhaps the concrete is beneficial for more than just its potential to withstand high winds.

The room seems… suddenly quite empty, and your shower effectively finished. Yes. You move back to the shower stall and close the faucet. It’s time to get to bed, and forget whatever _that_ was. It isn’t as though you stayed dead! You’re here, now, as you will be tomorrow, and the day after. You shake your head, tugging your night-clothes on with a little more force than necessary. Stupid. You can withstand a little pain.

At least no one had been privy to your little _experience_. You take comfort in that; the last thing you need is another dose of embarrassment or a series of awkward explanations.

* * *

Of course, there’s no way you could know that there is at least one person in this base with absolutely exceptional hearing—one person who certainly knows of this episode. Whether his hearing is actually better than that of his fellows or if he simply listens more effectively than the others on this base is debatable, but matters not in either case: Medic, startled out of his evening tasks by a chilling sound, followed the distant, muffled call to its source. The showers, bolted shut. A frown creased his brow as he waited by the door, straining to hear of any struggle; if there was a fight, he was fully prepared bring the thing down, deadbolt be damned—but, if it were as he suspected… that approach simply would not do.

Beside the bolted door, he waited, breath baited, counted out the seconds. There was no movement inside, only the keening wail that prickled flesh down to the bone. And then—

It stopped. Cacophonous breathing. He looked about, casting suspicious glances up and down the hall before resolving to stay. If you had fallen unconscious…

But then, pacing. And then—the water fell silent. Medic nodded, slowly, brow furrowed.

Yes—as he had suspected, indeed. A gross stress reaction. In the War, they’d called it Shell-Shock. It was… something he had not thought on in some time; anything the others had experienced at the start of this employment had long since passed. Likely, it had been triggered by a disruptive memory or some discordant thought, and unless you went to him, there was little to be done, but you seemed to have handled it well yourself—for the moment. Perhaps it would happen again, perhaps it would not. For now, he knew there was nothing for it but to record the incident in the appropriate medical files. It would certainly be interesting to see how things progressed.

Medic paced down the hall, back the way he had come—long gone by the time you left to return to your room—hands clasped neatly behind his back, boot-heels clicking upon the floor, the echo of that pained howl catching fast in his memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The More You Know: PTSD was not categorized or diagnosed under that name until the 1980s, as the Vietnam War provoked more serious research into the condition. Beginning in 1952, what we know as PTSD was called "gross stress reaction," listed in the first Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association. In WWI, it was called "Shell Shock" after soldiers' reactions when exposed to heavy artillery fire. 
> 
> (Oddly enough, when I went searching for Germany's research at this time (since Medic presumably did most of his training in Germany), I found that in the 1670s, both the Swiss and the Germans identified the behaviors the made up PTSD, but they called it 'nostalgia' and 'homesickness', respectively. Freud would later write about the afflictions, but his theories regarding "war neuroses" with its 'war ego' and 'peace ego' did not gain much ground. And, as Medic is in the States, I'm sure he's done some reading on what the APA is up to; mental health may not be his priority, but it does fall into his purview as the team's doctor.)


	8. Revenge is a Dish Best Served by a Surgeon's Cold Fingers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to escapistsovereign, who most graciously beta'd this chapter. 
> 
> WARNING for: blood, revenge, and graphically described injury/death in this chapter.

Sleep was fitful, but you woke alert enough to don a clean uniform in the morning-dark, and shuffle down to the kitchen, where the scent of coffee and a hot kettle waited. You take a seat across from the demoman, half-slumped in his cup of tea. There’s the distant sound of a bugle, but it’s not enough to jostle either of you into more than a grunt of “g’morning,” and you’re halfway to a light doze over your own steaming mug when a gloved hand clicks something onto the table before you.

You blink. It’s a little, brown bottle. “What’s this?”

Medic stands at your shoulder, hands behind his back. “Dietary supplements. You will take one each morning, and two each evening.” He moves to the cupboard and draws a mug down for himself. It sounds a hollow ring on the countertop.

“Why?” Your brow furrows. He can’t be criticizing your eating habits already!

“It compensates for nutrients lost during respawn,” Medic replies as he pours the coffee. “Potential negative side-effects vill be negated or at least slowed over time.”

You press a hand to your brow. First, your identity in exchange for this position, then, your heart in exchange for temporary invulnerability, and now, your damned nutrition, too. “Nothing’s free, is it?”

The question had been rhetorical, but Medic meets your eyes over his spectacles. “No.” The doctor takes his cup and carries it to the door, back the way he’d come. “Remember to take them. You won’t like it if I have to administer zhem for you.” And then he’s gone, door swinging shut behind him.

You frown at the bottle; a bright reflection of the fluorescents winks cheerfully on the amber glass and white, metal lid. There’s no label—no indication of what, exactly, the capsules inside might supplement.

“Best t’just take it, lass,” advises the demoman, slurping his tea. It occurs to you that this is the first time you haven’t seen him nipping at the bottle. “Migh’ not be exactly what ‘e says it is, but it’s better than th’ alternative.”

You might have some idea, but you ask anyway: “What’s the alternative?”

The man fixes you under his singular, tawny gaze. “Y’had the surgery, did ye no’?”

“Yes.” Your fingers tighten around the mug’s porcelain handle.

He nods. “Well, there ya go.”

The shiver elicited by this non-explanation and your decision to take one of the red capsules are _absolutely_ unrelated. Mostly unrelated. You swallow the pill, supposing you ought to eat something with it, though Medic gave no particular indication either—

[ _Alert: BLU spy in the base! A BLU spy is in the base!_ ]

“Aw, bloody hell!” Demoman knocks back the rest of his tea in one gulp and nearly upsets his chair on the way to the door. “Bloody boggin bassa can’t fookin’—”

You’re scrambling up, tucking the bottle into your pocket as a siren begins to whine over the speakers. “What? What’s going on?”

“Grab yer gear, lass, and get down to th’ intelligence room!” He takes the moment to tighten his belt before bolting down the hall, calling one more complaint over his shoulder:

“The bloody scadge’s started early!”

Well… you’re not entirely sure what a ‘scadge’ is, or exactly how the spy might have gotten into the base before seven in the morning, but you’re already careening down the hall toward your room, sparing more than one furtive glance about the corridor, as though you might see the smarmy bastard lurking around any corner. You wish now that you’d just taken your weapons to breakfast. In fact, you’re seriously considering strapping on your Lancaster as part of your daily routine—like brushing your teeth, or finding a clean pair of underwear.

As soon as you throw open the door to your room, you’re reaching for the weapons lined neatly upon your bed, ready for the day: howdah pistol first. You strap it immediately on your thigh. Then, Gyrojet, and then: ballistic shield. These you can carry and buckle into place as you run, making your way through the unceasing din of sirens toward the south-facing spawn—the one linked to the vault where RED’s secret documents were stored.

You see the pyro turn the last corner up ahead, and fall into place beside them as you enter the spawn room. Everyone else is already present, holstering weapons and slamming their lockers shut—all, you notice, except Demo, Engineer, and your team’s spy.

“Ah, _neue!_ ” Medic appears beside you, smiling—a complete and utter change in manner from mere minutes ago. The air around him practically buzzes with an excitement too reminiscent of the disconcerting glee he displayed your heart surgery two days ago. “You’re ready for a hunt, _ja?_ ”

It makes sense now. “You knew.”

“Yes. We were supposed to capture the enemy intelligence today—but I did not know zhe BLU spy would be so eager to begin.” He flashes a broad grin, eyes narrowing, glinting dangerously behind his wire-framed spectacles. “To track him down today would sate your lust for revenge and benefit the team. There was no reason to put your focus in jeopardy yesterday: victory is made by zhe team as a whole.” Yes—it all makes sense now. Of course you should have known not to be tempted to deviate from the objective in the first place. “Now, what do you say we give the spy a taste of his own medicine?”

The very thought gives you a thrill, and you find yourself returning his grin. “Where do we start?”

“You and I—we will take the right corridor. Scout will lead Soldier and Heavy to retrieve zhe enemy papers. Engineer has already begun to set up a defensive perimeter—Sniper and Pyro will join him. Demo and Spy have already begun their task. _Komm_.”

You do, following the even click of his boots on the concrete into the hall. The ballistic shield finds your hand as you follow close in the doctor’s shadow, just on the tail of his pristine coat. Only the tap of boots and the whisper of fabric can be heard as you move down the corridor—when had the siren fallen silent?

The only eggshell-colored walls in the entire base fly by in your hurry to keep up with Medic; he was far faster than you anticipated with that bulky medi-gun apparatus over his shoulders. Your brow furrows. Still—the man has no armor, no particular defense should some distasteful surprise be waiting for you ahead. You open your mouth to tell him so when he suddenly dodges to the left, to round the first corner; you grab for the edge of his coat but your fingers meet only air as he holds his ground, aims—

Lowers the syringe gun, gives you a nod. The hall is clear.

“Shouldn’t I—?” You indicate your shield-arm helplessly. This is what the ballistic shield is _made_ for: pressing or holding a small area. An enclosed location gave you the greatest advantage; the wide field of the gravel pit didn’t showcase half the possibilities of—

“Oh, you haven’t seen me work in a tight space yet, _Fräulein_ Specialist! Let me assure you, my skills are most effective in zhe closest range you can imagine.” Something in his grin is reminiscent of that jagged bone-saw, and you find there’s no way to reply.

So, you follow him down the too-quiet hall, moving at a steady pace. If he won’t let you take point, you’ll cover his six. You’re sure to turn in tight semi-circles, sweeping methodically, shield high, Gyrojet low, eyes keen for even the slightest movement, the smallest disturbance in the air…

A thought occurs: “How do we know there’s a spy in the base?

The doctor gives a derisive snort. “Our spy ran across him, but did not succeed in killing the man.”

The spitting image of Scout leading you to sure death is one that does not readily leave your mind. Nothing had seemed off. Voice, expression—how was anyone to determine the false in such an uncanny imitation? “How do we know our spy wasn’t replaced?”

“Oh, believe me, Specialist—” Medic’s chuckle raises the hair on the back of your neck. “—we made _quite_ certain.”

“Ah.” You fervently hope you’re never in such a position, and firmly decide not to ask for details; you don’t want to know.

Footsteps ahead.

With a snap, your shield extends, and you move—but Medic blocks the path with his arm, shaking his head once, firmly.

 _Tap tap tap tap_.

He lifts a gloved finger to his lips, and readies the syringe gun as you draw your Gyrojet high, your stance an awkward in-between; not fully defensive, nor committed to attack.

Why won’t he just let you—

Pyro. _Your_ pyro, thank god, rounds the corner, bent in a graceful arc over the flamethrower’s shaft and nozzle, sweeping it before them like the muzzle of some great hound.

But Medic does not lower his weapon.

“Mmmrmph. Mhuddah.”

And neither has Pyro lowered their flamethrower.

“Pyro. Have you found anything?” The doctor asks conversationally.

The mercenary shakes their masked head. “Muhrmn. Hrn?”

Doubtless, the sound was inquisitive; it would not be a stretch, you decide, to interpret it as “you?” Your eyes flick to Medic’s shoulders, rigid beneath the starched white of his coat. You shift uneasily.

“ _Nein_ , nothing,” he replies, voice perfectly even, each syllable carefully selected and uttered in exact rhythm.

“Hmrmph.”

Medic gives no indication of comprehension, not the smallest nod, nor the subtlest arch of his brow. Your fingers tighten around the Gyrojet’s handle.

“In that case, _Herr_ Engineer could use some assistance.” The doctor steps aside, turns to indicate the hall through which you had just trekked. He gestures with an open hand, elbow tucked close to his torso, and the barrel of the syringe gun sweeps with his pivot, pointing ineffectually at the wall just ahead. “He is setting up a dispenser close to the central intersection.” You complement Medic’s position, turning to allow your team-mate to pass.

“Huddah!” Pyro gives a thumbs-up.

Medic’s lips curl. “Excellent. We’ll have that spy soon enough.”

The pyro strides past, eclipsing your view of the doctor for only a moment.

First is the sound of heels scrabbling for purchase on the concrete. Your eyes missed the instant of movement—and for a moment you’re not sure who struck first. The flash of silver. The glint of blood. A waver in the air as Pyro melts away in a flash of blue.

And Medic, a triumphant grin, fluorescents glinting on his spectacles, hair in a disheveled sweep across his forehead, constraining the BLU spy’s limbs with an arm across his waist, jagged bone-saw pressed to his neck, the smallest flecks of crimson coloring the blade’s edge. A shallow wound shows in a tattered tear of the spy’s trousers, blood upon his thigh.

Holy hell.

“Well, Specialist? He’s yours.”

All trussed up and glaring steadfast, suit mussed—so very, utterly, deliciously opposite yesterday’s meeting— _for you_. You can feel your heart race a little faster, a hollow thump behind your breast.

“ _Monsieur_ ,” you say, a grin creeping over your lips. “I’m afraid I did not introduce myself properly yesterday.”

He spits, and you frown. “Now that is rude. Are you not a gentleman, Mr. Spy?”

“As though you’re worth my consideration,” he snorts. “I’ll get what I came for—this little game is of no consequence.”

You raise your eyes to Medic’s. The doctor has adopted an expression of keen interest, brow high, mouth quirked so very slightly.

“You’ll be gone by the end of the week,” the BLU spy sneers.

You’re suddenly not sure what to do. The spy granted you a quick, clean death—twice. You don’t have a knife with you to make your retaliation suitably messy (in keeping with revenge) and short (in keeping with simple fairness). The Lancaster is already in your hand, wood warm against your palm. Leaving him to bleed out is simply too risky. But the pistol alone seems too easy, after the way he’d played with you yesterday, and Medic—observing, intent—you suddenly feel as though this is some test of… mettle? Mercy?

You can feel beads of sweat prickle your brow, slick your palm.

“ _Neue_.” Medic nods, letting his mouth curl in an inviting grin. “Anything.”

“The girl requires _coaxing?_ ” The spy laughs outright, full, sound echoing along the hall. “Go home, _cherie_ : this is no place for a soft heart. Tell your mother you’ve failed utterly a—”

His lips are moving, but you do not hear the rest. The world is dark, and it is red, and you force an open hand against the blunt edge of the saw. Silver teeth grind against leather, pierce soft flesh. One beat; two—and blood, crimson, glinting in the white light, pours from a dozen jagged slivers in pale skin, running, splashing upon the blade, and the spy’s voice gargles, scratches, catches, stops, nothing but ragged, rattling gasps—and you level the four barrels of the howdah with his head.

“Ready?” you ask him, a bitter mockery.

But the spy only gasps ineffectually, gaping like a fish. He drops to his knees, gloved hands scrambling to stop the blood for even a moment—

“The Specialist. At your service.” You pull the trigger.

Scarlet and crimson and burgundy. Sticky, bitter iron prickles your throat with each breath. You wait. You watch, until the white shards disappear from the wall, the heavy lumps of matter and shreds of leather fade from the floor, the body evaporates from view. Until respawn takes every trace of consequence from your action, leaving only the spray of blood, a memory on the walls, trickling derisively down your nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The More You Know: The title 'Fräulein' ("Miss") is rather out-dated in the present, often considered rather offensive--almost like "missy" or "little miss," as my beta mentioned. Neither of us are sure when it became condescending, but I wanted to keep it here for that reason--whether or not the title was still in accepted use in the late 60s--because it _is_ a bit condescending. Because sometimes Medic is kind of an arse.


	9. For Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful beta, and to my lovely readers.

Tonight, the shower peels dried flecks of blood from your skin, your hair. Your last respawn had been… five hours ago now? Six? Enough time to paint yourself and the walls with the BLU soldier’s blood before the enemy scout had found safety in the opposing base, dragging RED’s intelligence with him. The Administrator had ordered an immediate ceasefire, and after an hour’s seclusion in your room, here you are. Black tiles, hot water, and a soapy scent to replace the coppery tang that had settled in your nose. Rose-tinted suds rush toward the drain.

You sigh, and roll stiff shoulders.

It wasn’t your fault, not really. The scout had to bypass your engineer, sniper, and pyro in order to leave the base with RED’s papers. But—you hadn’t been looking when Medic took a bullet to the head. You weren’t fast enough to block the hall. You hadn’t heard until the little shit was right on top of you—and the BLU soldier was barring your way.

Stupid mistakes.

You turn the water up a little higher, as though a good scalding might make them as inconsequential as sending a man to respawn.

Sending a man to respawn _in the most inhumane way you could conceive_. Fingers tighten against your scalp, shampoo running down over your forehead. You squeeze your eyes shut. _Go home,_ cherie… _tell your mother you’ve failed utterly—_

But your mother’s face is there, just as it was at the airport. Bright with tears. Your memory is kind, and removes the scarf she had been wearing—you can see her hair. You wonder if her cheeks are no longer so sallow, if she’s been able to tend to her flowers.

Are the burns gone?

Has she stopped cradling her arm against a sunken chest?

Hot water wicks your tears away before you even acknowledge them, mingling with the blood and the dust and the soap, disappearing down the drain.

You don’t want to think about this. Not now. Not today.

_Money. Steady job. Self-sufficiency. **Money**._

As soon as the job is secure. As soon as the job is secure, you’ll send a letter. You promised. Send it with Miss Pauling; she’ll make sure it arrives.

 _If_ your job is ever secure. You lost the intelligence today.

Stupid, stupid. Stupid mistakes.

The water doesn’t prickle your scalp anymore, just hums along as though it were only lukewarm. The tiles are still chilly beneath your feet. You sigh against the water trickling over your lips.

Stupid mistakes, yes—but you recall Medic’s earlier observation: a success (or a failure) is made by the team itself, as a whole. The others must have made stupid mistakes, too.

Yours contributed to the loss, but so did theirs.

You only hope the information stolen was of little enough consequence.

Slick fingers find the silver knob again, and you let the water run cold before shutting it off completely, shivering as you reach for your towel. Might as well let the others chastise you, if they will. They were all too busy in their own, private grumblings to notice you slip away immediately following the ceasefire.

You throw on some sweatpants and an undershirt before stepping into the hall with your wet towel and soaps in a bundle. You can leave your things in your room, and then head for the mess hall. Lunch hadn’t happened, exactly, as it had on the field, and the day isn’t yet over, so—

“ _Docteur_ , you already seem quite determined that the girl should stay.”

Well, for a spy, he certainly isn’t being discreet in his volume. The door to the common room, you notice, is slightly ajar. You hover, indecisive, glancing about the hall for any movement. You really shouldn’t…

“ _Nein_. I am determined she has the best possible opportunity.”

But you do.

“A pretty sentiment,” Spy scoffs. “You and I both know better.”

“You seem to forget, _Herr_ Spy, that part of this test is a matter of teamwork. And if no one is willing to try—”

“Come now, doctor—”

“No. Medic is right. This is team. Should act like it.”

“She has to earn—”

“Does not have to earn being treated fairly,” Heavy’s voice rumbles. “No one has to earn fairness.”

You strain to hear.

“I did not mean…” Spy sighs. “Yes. I did not mean to imply otherwise.”

You decide it’s best to make yourself scarce before the conversation ends and you’re outed as an eavesdropper. The bundle has dampened your shirt, but there’s a warmth settled in your chest. You blink back tears again.

Now you’re just being silly.

You try not to think of your mother.

In your room, you hang the towel off the door to the armoire to dry, and place your toiletries on one of its upper shelves. The crate still sits, half-empty, in the middle of the floor. The neat stacks of books inside are calling. You peel off your damp shirt and bra, fling them carelessly over a chair. You’d rifled through the volumes only once since arrival (Archimedes was a scientist _and_ mathematician, thank you very much), but you know your favorite is three down from the top of the stack, familiar to your hands, smelling sweetly of ink and well-loved paper.

Every time you find yourself in a bookstore, you’re tempted to buy another copy—that one has a lovely illustration, or this one is full of footnotes, or that one is an early edition with leather binding, or this one bears the love of its previous owner, palpable through its worn edges, like a thousand fingerprints coloring glass.

You settle on the bed with the only copy you’d brought—a paperback with pages that aged a graceful yellow. There’s still light out the barred window, but no one will begrudge you an early evening, surely? Perhaps they won’t even notice you’re missing.

 _ **Chapter 1.** On February 24th, 1815, the watchtower at Marseilles signaled the arrival of the three-master _ Pharaon _, coming from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples…_

* * *

 

A knock rouses you from chapter eight, just as Edmond is left in a lonely cell at Chateau d'If, wrongly accused, enduring a sleepless night. Your brow furrows. “Just a second!” You find your bra and undershirt where you’d left them, and throw a button-down on for good measure before opening the door.

“MAGGOT!”

Oh, god.

“You have not run the obstacle course since arrival!”

Ah, shit.

“And you know what? WE LOST OUT THERE TODAY, MAGGOT. You will run that course whether you like it or not!”

“Soldier, I—”

“Move it, ensign! Move it, move it, double-time!”

“If you’d just give me a—”

“NOW!”

Your boots are on and you’re jogging down the hall before you can tell your feet what to do. You clench your jaw. _Asshole with his drill-sergeant voice and—_

“Hup, hup, hup! YOU CALL THAT MOVING, SOLDIER?”

At least he’s right there running the narrow hall with you. Better than standing on the side of the track with a coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other while everyone else does the—

“LEFT!”

Your boots almost lose traction, but you make it out into the dusty yard. The _unbearably hot_ , dusty yard. You squint through white sunlight at the barrels and tires and makeshift track. There’s sweat already beading on your forehead. What are you doing out here again?

“NOW GET YOUR REAR ON THAT COURSE BEFORE I KICK IT OVER THERE, MAGGOT! It should be complete in seven minutes.”

Yeah. _Right_. That. The desert heat chases all traces of air-conditioned satisfaction from your lungs.

“NOW, GO!”

You have half a mind to tell that firecracker to go to hell because you have a book to read, but… this is a distraction, good as any.

That, and you’re not sure yet if he’s above trying to send you to respawn after-hours for ‘insubordination’ or some such nonsense. If you can avoid starting fights at this point in the week, you will.

And so, your feet take up a steady rhythm on the hard, cracked dirt. Orange dust clings to your boots. So much for not having to clean them tonight.

It’s a straight path to a set of tire obstacles, then a few barrels you assume Soldier expects you to hurdle, a sharp turn, some more barrels to dodge through, and a loop around to do it again. Joy. At least you have something to focus on—namely, not tripping and falling on your face as you get your bearings on these obstacles.

You make it around once, remaining proudly upright.

“EIGHT MINUTES, MAGGOT! AGAIN!”

You grit your teeth and keep running, trying not to let your breath hitch too much on the dusty air. You’re already sweating through both shirts. Once you clear the hurdles, your fingers tug the buttons on your over-shirt free, and you peel the damn thing from your shoulders as you dodge left and right.

“NINE MINUTES. YOU’VE GOTTEN SLOWER, ENSIGN!”

You throw it at Soldier’s helmeted head and don’t stick around to see if you were successful. At least you’re slightly more comfortable now, under the sun’s merciless rays, sweat-drenched and panting; there’s less fabric between you and the breeze created by your rhythmic pace.

This time, you barely have to focus on the course—your feet know where they’re going.

You wonder if you ought to apologize for letting Medic get shot in the head. It wasn’t your fault, exactly, no, but if you had been watching his six instead of trying to take point again, maybe—

“NINE MINUTES, TWENTY-TWO SECONDS. HYDRATE, MAGGOT!” He gestures sharply to a watering station tucked in the shade of a nearby shed, upon which your button-down sits, neatly folded.

You draw uncomfortably deep breaths as you slow to a jog, reaching greedily for the tap. Perhaps this isn’t all bad. The man isn’t _completely_ off-kilter.

And then you realize that Soldier has not had a watch, clock, or time-keeping device of any kind on his person since you began this routine.

Your fingers twitch as you gulp down the water. Your breath slows after a moment of staring slowly off into the desert. Waves ripple in the air, distorting your view of the orange plains. And then, you return to the course.

Before long, the faint wind brings a soft jingle. You turn your head just in time to see Scout breeze right by. And then, he turns, and jogs _backward_ , still steadily ahead, grinning. Show-off.

But you can hardly blame him—that he trods over the tires without missing a step, no need to double- or triple-check his position, is rather impressive.

“You know ya don’t have to do what he says, right?”

You sigh between breaths. “It seemed easier this way.”

“Figured it out quick, did ya?” Scout laughs.

You give a half-grin. “I’m a quick study.”

“Oh?” He waggles his brows. “In that case, I’ve got—”

“Save it.”

Scout only laughs harder and makes a graceful turn to vault the first barrel. As you struggle over, both hands braced on the wooden edge, you envy his light frame. You can clear the barrels no problem, but—you could use some finesse.

“I’m really more interested in Miss Pauling,” he calls over his shoulder. “She’s something, ain’t she?”

“She is.” Oh, absolutely. “But she’s also rather… busy.”

“Always,” Scout agrees. “But one day she’ll get a day off, y’know?” He weaves between the next set of barrels.

So far, you had successfully maintained distance, but you begin to slow now. But—this was your fourth (third? fifth?) circuit, after all! Scout had only just begun.

You also realize that these are possibly the shortest sentences Scout has uttered to you these last couple days (not counting monosyllabic warnings on the field). Perhaps half his energy was diverted in running. This might be the way to have a proper conversation! You know, if you could catch ample breath.

On the clear stretch, Scout turns to face you again. “So, what’s ya type?”

Your brow furrows. “My what?”

“Ya type—like… nerdy guys, tall guys, dark and handsome—”

“I—” You cough. “Um.” Really?

“Like… I like dangerous and gorgeous, y’know? Smart. And—”

“Can kick your ass.”

“Yeah! Er—” He’s flushing, and if you weren’t completely out of breath and aching at this moment, you’d celebrate with a leap and a cackle. But he recovers quickly. “So—what?”

You release and exasperated breath.

“SEVEN MINUTES, ENSIGN, CONGRATULATIONS. All it took was some competition!”

You let your steps falter straight into shade and the promise of water, panting. Scout jogs the whole way, expectant. He even jogs in place while you threaten to devour the watering station’s entire jug, soaked from your bra to the undershirt, all exposed skin sticky with sweat.

“I don’t really…” You shrug. “I don’t have one, really?”

“Aw, come on, that’s no fun!”

You shrug again, slurp down some more water.

“You married?”

You nearly choke. “No.”

“Boyfriend back home?”

You crumple the little, paper cup in your fist. “No.”

“Well, if you don’t have a type—”

“Scout, please.”

He raises both hands. “All right, all right—ya don’t have to give me the Death Stare!”

You blink. You… hadn’t realized. But if it worked, fine. “I just want to focus on getting this job, all right?”

Scout nods furiously. “Sure, sure.” He starts to go off, do some stretches—but turns on his heel, grins. “But after, right?”

“What?”

“After you get the job, you’ll tell me? We can hit the bar!” You open your mouth to reply, but he hurries on: “It’ll be fun! Maybe you can give me some pointers, yeah? Put in a good word with Miss Pauling for me?”

You press a hand through the sweat of your brow, let a chuckle pass your lips. “Tell you what, Scout, I—” Standing there in the sun, all big, hopeful, eyes and his best attempt at a charming smile, he reminds you so much of home that you have to push the ache from your chest. “If I get to stay, I’ll see what I can do.” He punches the air, and you shake your head. There is… something else, all bound up with that steady, aching beat of your heart. It can’t wait. You clutch your button-down in one hand. “Soldier, am I dismissed?”

“Dismissed, Specialist!” His voice echoes from within the shed, already engrossed in who-knows-what.

“Where’re ya goin’?” Scout asks in the midst of a hamstring stretch, dog tags jingling.

You spare a glance over your shoulder, but your mind is already gone from here. “I’m—there’s…” You don’t let your steps slow, carrying you across the cracked dirt. “I have a question.”

“Hello, veteran merc, here!”

“Not—you can’t answer it. It’s not…” Your brow furrows. _Home_. “I have to go.”

“Spesh—”

“Sorry!”

You push through the base’s double-doors, a rush of cool air as your vision adjusts to the artificial light, stars and spots swimming before your eyes. Your boots sound an uneven rhythm upon the floor.

You remember well the way to the med-bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book is, of course, _The Count of Monte Cristo_ by Alexandre Dumas, this translation by Lowell Bair.


	10. To Do or Not To Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to escapistsoverign, my beta, to whom I owe some of Heavy's dialogue near the end of the chapter this time around.

Of course, would the doctor even be in the medical wing? The last you knew, he had been in the common room with Spy and Heavy—

Perhaps you shouldn’t bother him. He’d been kind enough to you already, more than you had any right to expect, practically an interloper on this base, without a full contract and, really, he has better things to do, surely, than answer your silly questions, and you’ll have a letter to your mother by the end of the week…

You stand before the metal double-doors.

This is ridiculous. There’s a book waiting in your room, a sandwich to be had, another long day tomorrow—and three more after that. Just… just wait.

“ _Spezialist?_ ”

Bloody fucking hell.

You feel your teeth clench, your eyes squeeze shut. But you open them, turn, try to look… casual. Or normal. Or something like that.

Medic has a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other, spectacles high on the bridge of his aquiline nose. He arches his brow. “Are you feeling all right?”

Oh. You must look a sight, sweat still drying on your skin, undershirt soaked through—you wring your button-down between your hands. “Yeah. Fine. I just…”

“You needed somezhing?”

No. This is foolish.

“I’m sorry. It’s not important.”

He peers through his spectacles. “Are you _quite_ sure you’re well, _neue?_ Perhaps I could just take a look at—”

“No—I—yes. I’m fine. No. Soldier just had me running the course and it’s…” He makes a note in the margin of the open page with a graceful turn of his wrist. “It’s… hot. Outside.” And getting hotter by the second in here.

Medic arches a graceful brow. _Graceful_. You’re stuck on that word today, aren’t you? “Hm.” The doctor wets his lips, adjusts his spectacles. Why did… why are you here again? Oh. Right. The question you’re **not** asking. “Well,” he says shortly, “if zhere is nothing you need—”

You feel your cheeks heat all the way to the tips of your ears. “No. Yeah—I’ll just…”

You turn on your heel and do not stop walking until you reach your room to sag against the door with a groan. _Holy shit_. Why. You killed a dozen men today without batting an eye, and yet, you can’t go an hour during ceasefire without embarrassing yourself. You kick off your boots, toss the button-down aside, peel off every sweaty layer, and tug the towel hanging from the armoire over your shoulders. One pair of shorts, underwear, and a fresh bra later, you’re sprawled across the stiff mattress again, book in hand.

Well, you’re having no worse a time than poor Edmond.

_As for Dantès, he remained a prisoner. Lost in the depths of his dungeon, he heard nothing about either the fall of Louis XVIII or the collapse of the empire…_

* * *

 

You’re on your stomach with a pillow propped under your head, one arm wrapped securely around the pristine pillowcase, when: _Knock knock knock._

Not even past chapter ten.

“Spesh! Hey, Spesh!”

You groan. “Please stop calling me that.”

A muffled laugh. “It’s time for dinner! Unless you’re not hungry, a’ course, in which case I can eat your—”

You tug on a shirt and throw the door open. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, there, Scout.” You join him in the hall with a grin, realizing our stomach has been complaining quietly for the last half-hour. “Who’s cooking?”

“Demo! He’s pretty good—makin’ some kinda soup today, and it smells great. Soldier, though… unless it’s a hamburger, Soldier can’t cook for _shit_ , so plan for it—he’s cookin’ next. On Thursday.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m pretty good at just about everything I do. I’ll be on dinner duty next week.” He winks, and just grins when you roll your eyes. “My ma taught me how to cook.”

Ah. “My mom… tried to teach me.” The dull ache is back in your chest. You try to push it away. “I’ve never been as good as she is.”

“Yeah, me either,” Scout admits. “But I’m still pretty damn good.”

You shake your head, turning the corner without looking to your teammate in order to double-check the direction.

“Oh, and uh—fair warning—I think Spy wants to talk to you.”

You almost trip over your own feet. “Why?”

Scout shrugs. “Dunno. But he _really_ wanted to come bring you for dinner, and I thought I’d spare ya.”

“I appreciate it.” You wonder if this has anything to do with your eavesdropping.

“No problem! Kind of a creep, Spy.”

You can’t help the corner of your mouth sneaking up in a smirk. “I think that’s his job.”

Scout raises his shoulders. “Eh.”

He was right; the mess hall does smell brilliantly of savory stew—but not hotly, you realize as you creep through the door. You draw a deep breath. It’s even… faintly minty. You pause, casting your eyes over the room: Spy is already here, in his spot at the end of the table, rolling an unlit cigarette between his teeth. He fixes you under his gaze as you approach, heading for the chair you had occupied that first night, and his dark stare does not abate, even as you shift uncomfortably and avert your eyes, turning your attention firmly to Demo, who sets a heavy kettle in the center of the table as Scout leans across, brow furrowed, frowning into its depths.

“I thought it was soup.”

“So ‘tis, lad! Cold soup. Pea soup just like _Granaidh_ used to make! Good for guests in the summer—or ungrateful scouts in the middle of the desert.”

Demoman begins ladling the stuff into bowls even as the boy in question makes a face and plops down into the chair beside Spy. “Ok, but it was hot when I left.”

He chuckles. “Chemistry ain’ just good fer explosives, lad; it’s a simple task tae make a soup cold.”

“Yeah, sure.” Scout folds his arms.

Demo steps out from behind your usual seat, and—all the embarrassment comes flooding back. Medic is here already here, too. And, just beyond him, Heavy. The doctor smiles, gives you a nod. “Specialist—you are feeling better, I trust?”

“Yeah. I was fine—I am fine—just tired…”

You hear the creak of the refrigerator door. “Beer, anybody?” asks Engineer.

“Please!” You take your seat, avoiding Medic’s eyes, but the man is determined. He removes his spectacles, wipes them on the edge of his coat, studying your face carefully as he does. You force yourself to meet his cool gaze evenly.

“ _Gut_ ,” he declares as Engie sets an open bottle beside your bowl. “If you find you are having trouble sleeping, come see me. Being overtired can affect your performance more zhan you might expect.”

“I will.”

The medic nods and replaces his spectacles.

You release the breath you’d been holding. Soldier, you notice, is missing, as is Pyro again. Though, now you have good reason to suspect they don’t care to remove the mask in anyone’s company, and one can’t exactly eat supper through a gas filter.

You fetch a spoon from the middle of the table as Scout chatters on about something or other, and you notice (with more than a little annoyance this time) that Spy is _still_ staring. Well, if he has something to say, the man ought to damn well say it and get it over with! You avert your eyes again, taking a spoonful of the thick, green broth—

And out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of the sniper, his lanky form folded over a chair against the far wall, propped on two legs, a bowl of soup resting on his knee.

You nod a greeting, which he readily returns, but says not a word.

The soup is sweet, rich—with just a touch of mint. Cool, refreshing, with a promise to be filling. “This is lovely, Demo!”

The man chuckles. “Thank y’, lass. I daresay me mum wouldn’ have a complaint!”

You take a sip from your bottle; the beer is… well, it’s cold, and it contains alcohol.

“Mama should be _proud_ ,” replies Heavy, leaning across the table to get another helping from the kettle. “Is delicious!”

“Eh,” says Scout. “It’s green.”

“Eat it, boy—it’s good fer ya.”

Sniper taps his spoon against the bowl in his lap. “The kid’s just spoilt.”

“Hey, man, you got somethin’ against the way my Ma raised me? Cause I—”

“Gentlemen, please.” Spy massages one masked temple. “Scout, eat your supper.”

He wrinkles his nose. “ _You_ ain’t my mother.”

“Scout.” The Frenchman rolls the unlit cigarette between his gloved fingers. “In case you have not noticed, I am a man who keeps a sound schedule.” He passes the cigarette from one hand to the other. “I am also a man you have prevented from having a particular conversation at the time that suited me. So, it is my turn to speak, if you do not mind.”

The boy’s mouth drops open. “I—”

“Maybe this is surprise, Spy,” Heavy interjects over a mouthful of soup, “but things exist more important than your schedule. Dinner, to give example." He laughs, but Spy… is certainly not amused; he pinches the cigarette tight between his fingers.

You’re sure you haven’t mistaken the warning latent in the Russian’s tone. The others appear to have noticed, too, eyes shifting back and forth expectantly, but—

“I can assure you this will interrupt your dinner no more than idle chatter.” He sighs, and you almost expect a puff of smoke. “ _Now—_ ” says Spy. He fixes his eyes on you, spoon halfway to your lips, mouth hanging open. _Brilliant_. “Specialist. Why are you here?”

You close your mouth with as much poise as you can muster, and set the spoon on the edge of your bowl. Is this question even allowed? You half-expect Engineer to speak up as he did before, but you can—

“Spy!” All eyes turn to Heavy, frowning across the table. “Why do you ask this?”

You swallow. “It’s ok, I—”

“I am giving the girl a fair opportunity.”

Heavy’s brow creases. “Is not your business!”

“Did you not say that I ought to be more flexible?” Spy’s fingers twitch.

“Should be, yes! But this is not fair question—”

“Guys…”

“—we do not ask you why you choose lies and backstabbing!”

“Now, now…” Engie raises his hands. “We can all jus—”

“No, no—” Spy’s eyes flash. “—let the man continue.”

“Girl does not owe you story! Can start over here; does not matter!”

“Do you think I cannot find out what I want to know without—”

“Now y’all really—”

“—asking, _mon ami?_ That I do not ask without—”

“Without other end in mind, no!”

“You—”

“Shouldn’t—”

“GENTLEMEN!” The chair clatters to the floor behind you.

The engineer lowers his hands, and Heavy drops his gaze. “Thank you.” Spy returns your pointed look evenly, the corner of his mouth catching in the slightest grin. “Specialist?”

You sigh, turning to retrieve your fallen seat, and Medic catches your gaze halfway. His eyes crinkle at the edges, lips turned in something like a smile… he is impressed? Amused? You right your chair, and return your attention to the Frenchman. “I will answer your question.” You look to Heavy. “Because I choose to.”

You have no idea if honesty will win you points with a bloody _spy_ , but it’s all you have.

“But I won’t be talking about where I come from—fair?”

“Fair.” The man nods.

“Ok.” You take a breath, look into the depths of your soup, as though it could tell you exactly how much to reveal, how much to play close to your chest. “I’m here, in part, for my family.”

Scout rocks back in his chair. “You an’ half the room!”

Spy glares him into silence. “And…?”

You lift the beer to your lips. Ugh. Part of the pay from this week can go toward buying something… more drinkable. “The money is good. Great, in fact, if I get signed on.” You set the bottle down. “And—” You consider the words carefully. “—I’ve never had the chance to be this independent before. I can… _do_ something.”

Medic chuckles, and you arch an eyebrow. “ _Genau!_ ” He shakes his head. “It is apt!”

Demoman catches the giggle, like some kind of infectious cough. “He’s right, lass—y’ fit right in if murder an’ mayhem is yer idea of _doing something!_ ”

And now you’ve got it, too. “I guess… it is a little silly when you say it like that.”

“A good sort of silly, it seems.” You fall silent, watching as Spy replaces his cigarette in its case, and pulls out a new one. Still, he does not light it before letting it perch between his lips. “It is something to think on, certainly, Specialist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, darlings--I'm going on vacation for just over a week, and wanted to make sure I got this update out for you before I left town. I'll try to have a little something extra for you all in addition to the usual update upon my return!


	11. You Used to Say 'Live and Let Live'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back again, my dears! This chapter's title comes from Paul McCartney's "Live and Let Die," title song of the 1973 James Bond film. 
> 
> WARNING in this chapter for: blood, needles, medical unpleasantness, graphically described injury/death, respawn sickness, and serious gore.

Your fourth day at the base dawns as early as the rest. The team is back to warring over the gravel pit, to endless rounds of capturing one point after another, and you hear nothing more of the stolen intelligence—either in reprimand or concern—until a chance encounter with the last person you wish to meet on the field.

It was an accident, judging by the surprise that flickers across his face when you turn opposite corners to stand, face-to-face, in a narrow alley. You had been pushing to the next point, and the BLU medic… had probably been answering the call of a teammate or two of his that you had left bleeding.

But, oh—the grin that captures his lips when he recovers makes your blood run cold.

You raise your shield just as the doctor pulls the trigger on his syringe gun, and the dart bounces off Kevlar with a metallic clink.

“ _Fräulein_.”

“Doctor.” You’re covered well; you know nothing short of a rocket at point-blank range will knock you down, not here between these walls. You draw your Gyrojet—

His brows arch, gaze searching the alley’s mouth behind you. “Ah—Herr Pyro.”

 _Shit_. You turn, anticipating the threat of flaming demise, drawing the Gyrojet high to level it with—air. Thin air.

And there’s a dull, burning sensation in your shoulder. You follow the barrel of the pistol to your wrist, over forearm and elbow, to the needle buried at the fold between shoulder and chest.

Your vision swims; arm drops to your side, heavy.

Oh. Oh, no. No—

Precisely what your medic had warned you against.

“This wasn’t your _fault_ , really, _fräulein_.” You thrust your shield-arm forward, but the doctor dodges the shove smoothly, sidestepping across cracked soil to fire his syringe gun again—and you’ve left your chest open, shield drawing back just a fraction too slowly— _fuck_.

The dart whistles—a stab, a pinch in your abdomen, and you rip the needle out of your coat and skin as fast as you can, gritting your teeth against the tug and slide.

With a snap, you strike at the man’s grinning face again, but—

 _Burning_. Across your thigh, you hear fabric tear under the teeth of the bone-saw, your leg gives, the moment transforming into a slow battle to keep yourself upright; you lash out, steel-toed boots striking true—a grunt as the medic hits the ground behind, and you scramble to crawl back the way you had come, dragging your injured limbs, and—

“BASTARD!”

White flashes of pain blind your eyes, his gloved hands wrapped around your bloody thigh, fingers digging into your torn flesh and muscle, and you roll, hissing, dragging his arm under your legs, scrambling to your forearms—you fall. The shot to the abdomen has made half the necessary muscles near-useless, little better than a steamed mound of pasta sloshing about against your will. You throw yourself to one side, your bodily weight centered atop the medic now, your blood smeared over his blue gloves and once-white coat, lips drawn back in a snarl. You strike his face with your shield. Once, twice—glass cracks between wire frames—before his free hand brings the bone-saw to your hip.

The blade grinds against bone, tears a scream from your throat, tenuous fibers of uniform fabric dragging, fraying, mingling with sinew and skin, and the medic is far stronger than you anticipated—

 _Crack_.

Face-down in the orange dust. Long fingers clasp the back of your skull, your hair, and—

 _Crack_.

The pain is white, red, burns, turns your stomach, draws the strength from your limbs, dust in your eyes—

 _Crack_.

Again, he slams your face into the crumbling soil. Your nose is broken beyond repair, you’re sure—blood hot, dusty, coppery on your lips, tongue—pins and needles dance across already swelling flesh. Gasping breaths through your bloody mouth. Distantly, you can hear the BLU medic cackle, and if the pain had not overloaded every nerve, your flesh might crawl.

The shield is pinned beneath your chest, and your remaining arm barely listens to command, inches across the cracked landscape of orange soil, grasping, clawing at dirt, catching on trousers, can’t find your Lancaster’s holster to—

“Allow me, _fräulein_.”

You scream. It takes a moment to register why—he’s sliced the holster free from your leg, with no care for the flesh he’s taken with it. Your head spins; you gasp against the gritty dirt.

Only one option occurs to you:

“HELP!” Your voice cracks, echoes along the alley walls.

That sets the medic laughing even harder. “ _Gott im Himmel_ —you think someone will come? They’re busy with the next point; they have no time for you.”

You spit, spraying the blood from your nose and half-numb, swollen lips onto the dirt. “Then kill me.”

“In good time.” A pinch at your shoulder, but thrashing does no good, soil falling into your jacket, loose stone and clumps of dirt digging into your stomach. The doctor’s knees are solidly on your back, his legs pinning yours. “A case full of medical records and none of yours among them, Specialist—but don’t worry: I’ll rectify my lack of knowledge shortly.”

Your head spins. Medical files. Why?

“Have you any idea what I can exploit with the right information?” Apparently your question had been verbal.

The ground seems to lurch beneath you.

He tears another scream from your lips with a slice across your spine. The teeth of the saw grinds, vibrates along vertebrae into your skull. You squeeze your eyes shut as the void creeps into the edges of your vision, white sparks of pain blurring your thoughts.

At least you’d bleed out before he accomplished much, at this rate. Was this even meant to yield results? So far the only thing he could find out, it seems to you, is that you both feel and react to pain.

Quite the revelation, that.

You’re floating a bit now, some combination of the drugs and blood loss, and, really, this isn’t the _worst_ thing that could have happened to you; your own mother has faced worse. Faces worse. This; this is nearly over now.

[“Spesh, could use some support!”]

[“Where the Hell are ya?”]

There’s no chance of your hand reaching the button at your ear now, as your breath comes in weak rattles. The sun fades to a hopeless grey.

[“ON YOUR LEFT!”]

[“Where in the fu—”]

[“FOUR O’CLOCK, FOUR O’CLOCK!”]

The darkness fades to familiar black before a cracking pain brings you, gasping, back. The sun glares in a clear sky, and you squint, groaning; the pain is gone now, leaving only a hum in your limbs that warms you down to the bone, and though your eyes reveal nothing but an indistinct blur, it is a sensation you recognize by now.

You let your eyes settle closed, allow them to rest a moment while your body and mind take inventory. You need to ask if he knows what was stolen from the base yesterday. If he does not… “Medic?”

“ _Ja_.”

Something’s wrong.

Your eyes snap open again, and you realize only now you can’t move any of your limbs, cannot lift your head, muscles groaning under useless strain.

The BLU medic’s visage swims slowly into focus as he sets his medi-gun aside. Your lips draw back in a snarl, but his voice is just as amiable as that first reply: “Oh… am I not the one you were hoping for?”

“ _What the fuck?_ ”

“I don’t have zhe data I need.” His grin turns your stomach even as rage races through your veins. Where is your team? How long have you been here? What the _hell_ does this bastard think he’s doing? “Now hold still.” A short laugh. “Not that there’s much choice, of course—”

Panic rises in your throat as the fabric of your coat parts beneath the blade of his saw, burgundy threads snapping and fraying.

“Let me die!” you blurt, heart racing. “Please. This is wrong. This is a battlefield. You can’t—”

“Shh—shh. Specialist. I will let you return to respawn in a few moments.” He chuckles. “Very nice of me, _nicht?_ It’s more than your medic did for our spy. Has he told you zhe story?”

You have no idea what the _fuck_ he’s on about, and waste no more time considering it and try with everything you are to thrash, to move—anything at all to get away from _that razor edge_. You strain until tears prick your eyes, but your head only lolls uselessly to one side and another on steady waves of panic. Your limbs lay heavy and useless as stones spread on the cracked, orange dirt.

The medic lowers his blade to your chest without another word, and pain erupts, racing across your skin. You hiss, you wail, unintelligible syllables falling from your lips. First, haphazard cuts shred flesh, sending flecks of blood across his face, catching on cracked spectacles, and you squeeze your eyes shut, clench your teeth, screaming, as the saw grinds on bone, sending tremors through your chest, vibrations along your spine.

“Ah, so he _is_ experimenting with another model… Oh, Specialist—wouldn’t you like to see?”

No. No, you wouldn’t. But when a hand plunges itself into flesh that should never touch the afternoon air, your eyes snap open.

You’ve seen flesh before, and blood, and muscle and bone, ragged sinew and skin—things outside in the hot, desert sun that should never have seen the light of day.

But you have never seen a human heart.

And this—you’re not sure it’s human any longer, if it ever was; this beating burgundy bundle, crossed with veins and wire, larger even than your fist, open and throbbing in the desert air, clenched in a cerulean palm.

There’s no sound now from your throat, as though the pain no longer matters, as though you’re so far beyond repair that your mind knows there’s no sense in sounding the alarm. You stare. You stare as rubbery fingers slip through your flesh, paw through intestines and veins like so much ribbon, as the blood flows in waves and feeds the dry soil, fills sandy cracks in ruby rivers, and the sun goes dim.

Icy eyes alight with glee, spectacles sliding down his nose.

The image of your heart, beating steady, copper branches gleaming to the sky, is first, last, foremost, forever in your eyes.

* * *

 

Knees on concrete and here you are, retching again. Distantly, as the heaves subside, you hear a scream. Someone is in pain. The voice echoes into the hall, but with trembling limbs, you’re in no condition to answer. You just dearly wish it would cease.

It does not until you close your mouth tight.

Fucking shit.

[“Spesh, you outta respawn yet? The Hell happened to you?”]

You spit and hit the button on your earpiece at last. You flex your fingers as you stand. The joints are stiff, but they comply.

“On my way. Got in a fight with the enemy medic.”

If you could call it that.

[“Apparently ya got pretty trashed—that asshole is lookin’ awfully cheerful right now.”]

You feel a bit ill at the thought. “I’m sure he is. Somebody do me a favor and shoot him in the stomach a few times and let him bleed out. Or maybe put a knife in his gut.”

[“Only if you take care ‘a this heavy first. Can’t even get to the freakin’ point!”]

“I’m on my way.”

The nagging question of whether your team knows what intelligence was stolen will have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll have a bonus update for you all in the next day or so, since I was gone so long. ;) 
> 
> My thanks again to the lovely escapistsoverign, whose pen-name has changed to orchiids. Do check out their new fic if you have the time; it threatens to break my heart.
> 
> I think I forgot to mention last time: I'll be referring to Spesh's shield exclusively as a ballistic shield, as that's a bit more correct than using 'ballistic' and 'riot' interchangeably. The main difference being that a ballistic shield is made of sturdier stuff with a little plexiglass window vs a riot shield made for police facing smaller projectiles and made mostly of plexiglass.


	12. ...Say 'Live and Let Die'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter also comes from 'Live and Let Die,' of course.
> 
> WARNING for: blood, graphically described injury/death, delirium, medical unpleasantness

Two minutes left in today’s final round. You’re on the fourth point, Gyrojet rifle braced on Kevlar. Fingers curl tight, slick with sweat, on the handles of your weapons. If your team can hold, the day will belong to RED, stolen intel or no. Well—you spare a glance over your shoulder—if _you_ can hold the point. None of your team is in sight; Pyro, Scout, and Demo, you know, are currently being processed at respawn. You haven’t seen Medic since the previous point was captured, Spy is never around anyway, Soldier and Heavy got caught in a skirmish, the last you had seen…

Sniper’s voice at your ear: [“You’ve got three BLUs comin’ up center. Soldier, Scout, an’ the pyro.”]

A _crack_ echoes through the hot, still air.

[“Two. Soldier’s down.”]

“Thanks! Any of our own in the area?”

[“Engie here—bringin’ a sentry yer way.”]

[“Heavy an’ the doc are busy holdin’ the west side.”]

“Thank you—how long, Engie?”

[“ ‘Bout another minute.”]

You squint through the harsh sunlight at the gap between buildings ahead, take your aim. The moment one of those BLUs shows so much as a shoulder, you’re prepared to pull the trigger.

Why are you on this point alone? If you lose…

A flash of blue. You fire.

“Have’ta do better than that!”

You squint down your sights at the weaving figure, shotgun cradled between his arms. “Watch me,” you mutter, and squeeze the trigger. Your lips curl in satisfaction as your bullet draws a bloody line along his shoulder, his face contorting in a grimace.

[ _Thirty seconds!_ ]

He pumps his shotgun, and the pyro moves in a flanking maneuver at ten o’clock.

“Got that sentry, Engie?”

[“ ‘Bout fifteen seconds, partner.”]

“Pyro’s coming up left—” you call “—I’ve got the scout.” You fire again, and the bullet sails over his head.

“No problem.”

The little bastard is almost upon you. Well, let him come—the little prick will get more than he bargained for. You holster the rifle and draw your Lancaster, ducking behind the ballistic shield.

A bang. The clatter of buckshot. A steady creak and clank behind you.

The scout is three strides away. Two. One—

You bring the shield’s edge up under his chin with a snap.

[ _The control point is being contested! Additional time_.]

 _Crack_. Vision spins. He brings the butt of his scattergun up for another strike, but meets only Kevlar as you drop back a step. Grasp your Lancaster—fire. The scout drops with a cry to his knees, clutching the hole in his thigh, shotgun clattering to the ground. You raise your pistol again—

“Fall back now!”

[ _Five_.]

You grit your teeth and dive back to where Engineer waits, finger on the go-switch.

[ _Four_.]

 _Click_.

[ _Three_.]

The sentry whirs to life. In a spray of blood and bullets, both the BLU scout and pyro are little more than shredded piles of so much cloth and bloody matter.

[ _One. Victory!_ ]

A giddy laugh bubbles up from your belly, and the engineer gives a hearty slap to your back. “Done good an’ right!”

“ _Oui_.” A waver in the desert air, and Spy stands at your shoulder, lighting a cigarette. “As well as can be expected, under the circumstances.”

“Were you there the whole time?”

He smiles. “And you did not need my aid.”

“But Engie—”

“Can’t expect you to hold _all_ on yer own. I just gave a last-minute push.” Engineer nods and pushes his goggles over his forehead with a wink, and you can’t help the grin that captures your features.

The spy takes a long drag of the sweet-smelling smoke. “We will see what comes, _non?_ ”

Another laugh escapes your lips. “Just like that?”

He shrugs slim shoulders beneath his suit-jacket and blows a curl of smoke to the blinding, azure sky. “There is potential.” With that, Spy turns and begins the walk back to base, melting into the heat-waves and leaving nothing but the trace of heady tobacco behind him.

With a twinge of discomfort deep in the joint, you feel the engineer’s heavy hand on your shoulder. “Maybe you should get to the doc—that scout knocked ya a good’un.”

“Oh…” There is a dull ache behind your eye, but the thrill is still running too strongly in your veins to let you feel the full force of what was likely some major swelling and a minor concussion as blood trickles along your scalp. “Yeah. Right now?”

He nods, and starts back toward the base after Spy, stepping off the metallic point—now showing red—onto the cracked, desert soil. You follow, tucking your pistol into its holster, and folding your shield down to size. “Medic gets right over there when anybody’s got major damage what won’t wait until tomorrow. I think most day’s you’ve been pretty fresh outta respawn, haven’t ya?”

Your brow furrows, and you ignore the twinge along your hairline. “Yeah—usually I just head back to my room, and everybody hits the shower.”

“Except the doc, when there’s a need.” He wipes some sweat on his scarlet sleeve.

“So I should—what—just head to the med-bay as soon as we get back?”

A brow arches, and Engie casts you an amused, sidelong glance. “The infirmary?”

You bite your tongue. “Yeah.” _Damn it all!_ Can’t watch your mouth for one damned minute?

He must have caught something in your expression, because he says no more on the subject—only reaches into a pocket to produce a gingham handkerchief, and offer it in an open palm. “It’s a bit dusty, but it’ll keep that blood from gettin’ in yer eyes.”

You take it and shake some crumbling flecks of that orange dirt from the fabric. “Thanks.” Tenderly, you press it to where you know things are stickiest, blood all muddled up with your hair. It stings. Your pulse has slowed, and by now, there’s a little throb in your skull with each heartbeat. Hopefully the doctor has some Tylenol.

Nearly everyone has already returned to base, replacing their weapons and shrugging out of heavy coats and cumbersome belts and sweat-soaked vests in the locker room as you and Engineer arrive.

“Hey, Spesh!” Scout bounds over just as you lift the handkerchief from your head to check and see just how much blood you’re losing up there. A quick glance reveals that the fabric isn’t _soaked_ , but you are a little concerned as the throbbing becomes more acute the longer you linger without treatment. “Heard you an’ Engie took care ‘a busin—ah, crap.” He gestures to the bloodied gingham and then to your head. “What now?”

You shrug. “Pistol-whipped with a scattergun.”

“Don’tcha have a shield for that?”

You press the handkerchief gingerly back to your head. “I was busy not getting _shot_ by said scattergun. Do you see any bullet-holes?”

“No, but you’ve got a great big knot on yah noggin.”

“Stuff it.” But it’s a cheerful sort of brush-off, even as your head complains more loudly than before when Scout responds with a laugh. “Where’s Medic?” You don’t see the white tail of his coat anywhere—and a couple of other faces seem to be missing as well.

“He’s patchin’ Heavy up. You should head over with Snipes—I think he’s got a stab wound or somethin’—hey! Hey, Snipes!”

The lanky bushman straightens from clicking closed the clasps on his rifle’s case. “Wot?” He slides the whole thing into his locker; along his right forearm is a tightly wound bandage, a faint bloodstain already showing through the linen.

“You’ve gotta go see the doc, right? Spesh, here got knocked in the head; you should go together! Team bonding and stuff.”

Oh good Lord. “Scout, I know where it is—”

“ ‘S all right.” Sniper shrugs. “I’ve gotta go anyhow; come or don’t.”

Pointedly ignoring Scout’s self-important grin, you hurry after the marksman, and fall into step beside him in the hall. Your throbbing head appreciates the relative quiet. Only the click or squeak of your boots follows the two of you through the tiled halls, but after several moments, you’re squinting uncomfortably under the fluorescents. _Damn_ head injuries—damn them all.

And the sniper doesn’t seem like he’ll be the one to begin a conversation. You rub your temple, shake your head against the ache between your eyes. “So what happened to you?”

He shrugs. “Scuffle with the spy there at the end. Got a good slice on my arm—” He raises the bandaged area for a brief look. “—but I finished ‘im. Took care of the wound m’self.”

From what you can tell, it looks like he did a pretty good job dressing it, too. “Do you do that often?”

He lifts a shoulder again. “Sometimes.”

You nod; wince when there’s an extra twinge in your head, and then proceed to nod much more slowly and slightly. A man of few words, evidently. He takes a seat in the hall nearest the infirmary’s door, and you leave a chair’s space between you both. The sniper, from what you know, appears to be a man that likes his space and his quiet. You can respect that.

You peel the handkerchief from your head again, catching your lip between your teeth. Stings, aches—not the worst thing of the day, but _shit_. It’s getting sticky already, and that means it’s clotting, but the throbbing in your skull only seems to get worse. You close your eyes against the white fluorescents.

There’s no discernable sound from the infirmary, so you settle into the uncomfortable plastic chair and wait, borrowed handkerchief still clutched on your lap.

 _SLAM_.

Ah, shit, shit, shit. You press a hand hard to your forehead. Needn’t have settled in, apparently. You peek through your fingers to see Heavy striding out of the double-doors.

“Thank you, doktor!”

“ _Ja, bitte_.” Medic appears beneath the door-frame, blood still staining his elbow-length gloves, gleaming in ruby drops and rivulets against the cheery, scarlet rubber. “Who’s next?”

Sniper waves a hand between you and the door. “Go‘head.”

“But you—”

He shrugs. “Mine’ll keep.”

You hesitate, already halfway to your feet. Technically he was here first. Not to mention _stabbed through the arm_. “Are you s—”

“ _Jesus Christus!_ ”

Yours and Sniper’s gazes rest slowly on Medic, a tall, rigid force of disapproval, glaring down the bridge of his nose, over his spectacles. “One of you needs to step zhrough zhis door _immediately_.”

“Sorry,” you mumble instead, and keep your eyes on the cracked, grey flooring as it transforms into white, marble-imitation at the threshold of the infirmary. You follow Medic’s crisp coat, yet stained with the orange dust of the battlefield, as it flutters over the tiles.

“Haff a seat on zhe table.” You frown. Every word is decipherable, but… his words are usually crisp, clear. Now, his accent is nearly impenetrable; you could cut through it with a knife, if you had one. This… even on the battlefield, your team’s medic has never seemed this rattled—or irritated. You swallow your nerves, but they still flutter at the back of your throat as you obey and take your seat on the table, still warm from Heavy’s bulk.

You raise your head as Medic strides away and starts the faucet at the deep sink. “Vhat is it?” He washes his hands, gloves and all.

“Pistol-whipped. I—uh—probably have a concussion.” Your nerves aren’t helping the matter, either, adding a sharp edge to each throbbing wave of pain. You take a slow breath of the chilly, sterile air. The bitter smell of antiseptic turns your stomach.

“Tch.” He shakes his hands over the basin. “We shall see.” The doctor turns sharply on his heel to face you, eyes flashing, cold, under the harsh light.

Only the steady thump behind your breast proves your heart is exactly where it should be.

You swallow the bile that rises in your throat and draw another deep breath, clutching both hands around Engie’s bloody handkerchief.

“Hold still.”

That certainly doesn’t help either as your limbs reflexively seize.

“ _Spezialist_ , please!”

“Sorry!” You squeeze your eyes shut. “I’m sorry, Medic—I—” Something, something, must find _something else_ … “Is there anything bothering you?” You exhale sharply through your nose, ignore that there’s an arsenal of needles and scalpels only feet away. Focus, questions… “You seem a little—”

He barks a laugh. “Tense, do I?”

Your brow furrows. Your breath comes a little easier now that you can’t see the blazing ice, the cracked spectacles… “Yeah. And we won today, so I sort of thought—” Rubbery fingers come into contact with raw skin and you gasp and bite your tongue.

“We won, but it vas _not_ a victory,” Medic hisses, and you hear the click of his boots retreat to a nearby corner, followed by the creaky hinge of a cabinet. “ _Der schweinhund!_ ” The cabinet slams shut with a deafening crack. You squeeze your eyes shut against the white flash of pain—oh fuck, oh _hell_ … “Zhere is no victory vhen your research has been _stolen_. _Und_ how, hm? _Wie?_ ” A click nearby. “Hold still. Stitches first.” The darkness behind your eyes is warm; it helps, even as the doctor’s harsh syllables rake across the day’s memories like fingers through your intestinal ribbons.

Fingers clasp the back of your skull and your eyes snap open to the dust and the blood and the sun.

“ _Fräulein!_ ”

An almost audible crack, like stepping on a dry twig in the silence of an autumn evening.

The medic’s cracked spectacles glint and gleam, your blood in flecks across his face— **not again.** “No.” You lash out; you won’t be taken over like this again—not again, no; you know what’s to come and you won’t be caught off-guard. Not again.

“ _Bitte_ — _hold still…!_ ”

Not again. No, you won’t; not again, that twisted heart beating under the golden desert sun, glinting, copper ruby red cerulean rubber and cracked glass and sand and gleaming teeth; no, not again—

White coat stained with the blood and the dirt and you can seize the lapels this time; there’s no wicked saw here, not now, not again, no—

“Oi! Specialist— _sheila—sheila, listen to me!_ ”

Hands clasping your shoulders. Leather, fingerless gloves.

Still here, still here, he must still be here—not again; you’ll be ready, you are ready; not again, no—

“Sheila, look at me. You’re at the base. In the infirmary.”

Amber aviators pushed onto a wide-brimmed hat. Eyes—eyes like a cat. One hazel, one green.

“That’s it—calm down, now. Come on.”

A glint of silver. Not again—you won’t be put down again, heavy-limbed and gasping, not again, pricking, pulling flesh—

“PUT THE FOCKIN’ NEEDLE AWAY, DOC!”

No. It won’t happen again. You’ll end him, or you’ll end yourself.

“DOC, JUST GET HEAVY, DAMN YOU!”

Fists crack against metal; the more you strike, the less you feel. Hands hanging useless, intestines and veins like ribbons in the breeze, pass through slick fingers, not again, not again, not again—

“ _Bloody hell_.”

Heart thumping, steady, steady, steady—no—not again—

“ _Tikihy!_ ”

Giant hands capture your fists. You won’t be restrained. You won’t. Not again.

“You hurt yourself. Stop now.”

Your hands are free.

“Shh. Tell me—tell me what are you seeing.”

You could run. You could…

Your breaths are ragged, and your heart races, safe inside your chest. “Heavy?”

“Yes. Tell Heavy. What do you see?”

You swallow. The sun… it won’t… not… “It’s bright.” Your head throbs, sharp.

“ _Da_. Lots of lights. What else?”

Lights. Heavy… still wears his bandolier, but not his vest? “No Kevlar.”

He nods, slowly. “Was very hot. And else?”

“You’re very big.”

He laughs, softly. “ _Da_. Now, what are you feeling? Better?”

You catch your lip between your teeth. “My—my fingers are tingling.” You draw a deep, stuttering breath. “And my face.”

Heavy nods, slowly. “Breathe; will be all right. In. And then out.”

You follow his instruction, flexing your fingers with a wince.

“I fetch bottle of water from fridge for you—I will not leave room. Is ok?”

You nod. Your mouth is a bit dry. “Thank you.”

Now that the mountain of a man has moved, making his way toward a little refrigerator on the opposite end of the room… you see a great deal more:

The gurney upon which your first surgery had taken place is up-ended, sterile sheets and paper winding across the tiles. A tray of medical tools lays scattered across the floor, thermometers and mirrors, scissors and stethoscope, things you cannot name. You’re sitting now on one of the curtained-off cots saved for extended stays, the thin mattress marginally better than the papered examination table. Heavy is the only person in the room aside from you.

You groan, bury your tingling face in tingling hands. “Please don’t tell anyone about this.”

“I will not; no worry.” You glance up with a start to find Heavy offering you a bottle. For a man so large, he is unexpectedly quiet. “Drink.”

You take the water gratefully, and the man takes a seat beside you.

“You still need bump on head fixed,” he says. “First, I must know what has happened. But not until you are ready to say.”

You take a long, cool drink from the bottle, let the water wash away the figment of dust from your throat. “I—should be able to—” You bite your tongue, shrug. “I’m alive. I can work through it.”

Heavy nods. “ _Da_. You can. But no need to work alone—you are on team now. Can help.”

Your heart aches a little.

You wish your mother were here.

“The—during the second round, I—disappeared for a bit.”

“Thought you were busy. Said you got in fight…”

You nod, draw from the bottle again. Cold. Wet. Far from the desert’s glaring gaze… “With the BLU medic. It—”

You exhale sharply through your nose, flex your fingers. Heavy rests a large hand on your shoulder. “Is not to happen again. Will not. You are safe here.”

Your stomach turns, stills. You breathe. “There was a scuffle, and—do you know they stole medical records yesterday? That’s what was in the case. Mine hadn’t been added yet, so…”

Heavy grunts, a deep rumble in his chest. You look up to find his gaze steely, distant. “Need say no more. Doktor will want to speak to you—our doktor.”

You resist the urge to rub the pins and needles out of your cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“Why sorry? Not for sorry. Experience was real. Respawn does not fix bad memory.”

Your shoulders sag. “Yeah.”

“Are you ready? Will wait to fetch doktor if not.”

You nod, slowly, draw a deep breath, finish your water. “I’m ready.” The room catches your eye again—a disaster. Bloody well embarrassing. “Shouldn’t I tidy a couple things up a little before—”

Heavy shakes his head. “Is good offer, but no. Doktor will want to put things back himself.”

Your teeth catch the inside of your cheek. “Not even the table?”

He rumbles a chuckle at that. “Fine. Just table. I will leave to get Medic—you will be ok?”

You nod, set the empty bottle aside, slide off the cot. “Yes. I’ll be ok now.”

Stormy, grey-blue eyes sweep over you once, ascertaining, before he departs through swinging doors. You stride over to the upset gurney and bend to right it, ignoring the tingling protest of your hands, and push it to a standing position… approximately where it had been, under the medi-gun’s mounted harness.

The doors swing open, and Heavy leads your team’s medic back into the infirmary, his expression as implacable as stone. Medic, however struggles, mouth twitching, gloved hands fluttering at his sides. Red gloves. Red class patch on his shoulder. Red tie around his neck, loose and crooked—probably your doing, you note with embarrassment.

“ _Fr_ —” He clears his throat, stopping to stand before you at arm’s length, Heavy lingering behind like some hulking shadow. “Specialist. He called you ‘ _fräulein_ ,’ didn’t he?”

You nod, gritting your teeth tight.

“You are feeling better?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, Medic.” You look at your feet, still protected by leather and steel. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t—”

“ _Bitte._ I should have known better. I vas too distracted to notice.” The click of his heels returns to the same cabinet as before, and you raise your eyes to meet Heavy’s gaze; the man has not moved. He cocks his head, and you give what you hope is a reassuring nod. You do feel… calmer, now.

“Tell me—” Medic continues. “—how much did he see?”

“Doktor—”

“It vas your heart, wasn’t it?”

Your fingers curl at your sides, hands empty. You realize you have no idea where the handkerchief has gotten to—handkerchief. That’s a safe thought.

You almost can’t see the bloody copper, the beating, burgundy lump of flesh each time you blink. “Yes.”

Something shatters, shards of glass tinkling across the tiles.

“ _Wichser. Hurensohn! Ich werde du mit meinen bloßen Händen töten! Ich werde seinen Adern von seiner Haut zerreißen um die Wände zu malen mit seinem Blut! Ich—_ ”

You don’t turn your head—even as restored as you feel now, you can hear the driving rage behind each syllable, though you have no idea what the words mean, and to catch that anger again… if that’s what it takes to trigger whatever this issue of yours is, you’re in no hurry to repeat it. But—

You twist and twine your fingers together. If the doctors were identical down to their voices, surely this would disturb you as well?

But the guttural, hissing rhythm of his rage as his tongue curls around syllables unfamiliar to your ear seems to catch itself up in the rhythm of your heart, the throbbing of your head, and your thoughts are nowhere near any matter beside the infirmary here, now…

“Doktor, please!”

There’s another crash as Medic falls silent.

He returns to your side. “On zhe gurney, please,” he says, quietly. You obey, casting another glance at Heavy. The Russian is still, a great sentinel in the middle of the half-wrecked infirmary. “I am going to clean your wound, check for a concussion, and add stitches before I finish the job with zhe medi-gun.”

You nod, slowly. “Thank you.”

Medic tips some alcohol onto a swatch of gauze. His spectacles catch the light, but they are whole, sliding down the bridge of his nose. Your jaw clenches.

“He is a coward,” the doctor says, softly, deliberately. _Here_ are the sounds uttered with conscious deliberation. You close your eyes as nimble hands press and clean the raw skin—it stings. “And he will pay for stealing from me.” You can feel Medic’s warm breath on your forehead against the cold cleanse of the alcohol. “I did not tell you, but zhat heart is a prototype. I plan on changing over the old technology for the others as soon as my observations are complete.” His hands leave your skin. “Open your eyes, _bitte_.” You do. Medic’s brow furrows as he flashes a pen-light through your gaze. “ _Ja_. Concussion. Throbbing pain, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“The medi-gun will fix that.” Through the spots dancing before your vision, you see him turn to the now-upright tray where he has set new tools. Now, he chooses a thick ointment, spreads it with a cotton-ball and brings it to your head. “This will dull the pain so you don’t flinch when I begin zhe stitches.” He fetches up a sterile needle and thread. “Six, I think,” the doctor mutters absently. His eyes crinkle handsomely at the edges, even as subdued wrath gleams in their icy depths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to orchiids, my lovely beta, who helped especially with the German this time around!
> 
> I went back-and-forth with myself on whether I'd provide a translation, since Spesh has no idea what was said, nor will she. But, for your convenience: 
> 
> Transl. "Wanker. Whore-son! I will kill you with my bare hands! I'll tear his veins from his skin to paint the walls with his blood! I--"
> 
> Updates will now return to the regular weekly-ish schedule!


	13. Literary Sanctity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This delay brought to you by the author's trouble with Plot Impulse Control and the author's amazing beta, who declared Not Yet on pain of readers' emotional whiplash. My deepest gratitude to orchiids, without whom this fic would be wrapped up in various knots.

_Dantès passed through all the stages of misery endured by prisoners forgotten in a dungeon. He began with pride, which is the result of hope and a consciousness of innocence; then, he began to doubt even his innocence; finally, his pride collapsed, and he began to pray, not yet to God, but to men…_

Evening. You’ve read those sentences at least three times. You know well what will befall Dantès now, even if you don’t make it through the paragraph: a friend, the only one he will have for the next fourteen years, and then, a means of escape.

You put the book aside on your night-stand, gently. Orange sunbeams streak through the bars on your window, play upon the ceiling as you roll onto your back, tuck the pillow behind your head. The sunset’s fingers stretch, slowly, toward your door. You’re clean, you’re fed, the memory of your headache long gone, today’s events pushed as far from your mind as you had been able to force them.

You sigh, close your eyes. Heavy was as good as his word: when you went to make a sandwich (there wasn’t any of Demo’s pea soup left from last night), no one spoke to you any differently; you returned Engineer’s handkerchief (it had been among Medic’s tools on the floor) with thanks and without incident.

Incident. There’d been only the two today, and… perhaps now, you can make something of them. Releasing a long, slow breath, you try to separate the true events of the infirmary from those of your mind. There is little to find—a blur of shapes and words, your absolute resolution, the memory of blinding sunlight and mocking syllables; you dearly hope you hadn’t caused your Medic any real harm…

Sniper. Sniper had been there. You bring your hands to your face. Oh, hell. You’ve spoken to the man—what—twice? And he saw that? Shit.

Bloody hell. You have to talk to him.

**Fuck.**

Fine, fine. This is fine. You’re an adult. You’re currently killing people for a living. You’ll march out of here, find a teammate that knows where the sniper might be, seek him out, thank him, and apologize. And somewhere, in the back of your mind, you can hear your mother agreeing with you.

 _Mom_.

You yank the pillow from behind your head and drop it over your face.

Nope.

Tears of frustration prick at your eyes. Apologies to Sniper be damned! Without this job, there’s no insurance. Without this job, the medical bills… your teeth sink into the inside of your cheek.

Even if Heavy (in his kindness that you’re not sure you understand) overlooks today’s episode on your performance review, Sniper and Medic certainly won’t. And why should they?

You bloody well attacked two of your own teammates. You’re a damned hazard!

You swallow the lump in your throat.

Maybe—perhaps they’ll be kind? As though you deserve any more consideration. They’ve been kinder than anyone has a right to expect already.

How are you going to explain to your mother why you’ve come back home so soon? Why you have no job, no future, no insurance that could _help_ , and why, why the hell do you have this innate ability to fuck up so brilliantly _every fucking time_ —

 _Knock_. _Knock_.

Your heart leaps to your throat. You consider pretending you’re not in.

“Specialist? Is Heavy. Do not have to answer—just came by to make sure you are ok.”

You bury your face further in the pillow as your tears spill over. You’re… not. You’re not all right. Your arms wrap around the pillow, press so hard you almost can’t catch a breath.

Silence.

You can lie here and pretend you’re off exploring the base. You can pretend you’re running the course outside. But there’s a nagging prickle in the back of your mind: if he cares enough to ask, you ought to trust him with the truth at least. After all, in three days’ time, you’ll likely never see one another again—and what will it matter what he knows then? You uncover your face.

You swallow the tears trying to catch your voice. “Heavy? You still there?”

“ _Da_. Still here.”

“Ok…” You press the heels of your hands over your eyes and draw a deep breath. “…just a second.”

You rise slowly, and pad to the door in your socks, a pair of khaki shorts (borrowed from your brother’s drawer before you left home), and your bra; you pull on another of the red button-downs before unlocking the latch. You’re going to have to do laundry tomorrow at the latest. You swallow the lump in your throat.

You open the door to find that Heavy takes up most of its frame, and he bows his head to look at you. “You are ok?”

You open your mouth, close it. Shake your head as tears well up again, but you will them back. You can’t—you won’t . He shouldn’t see you cry; he’s seen enough for today.

“You want company, or no?”

“I’m really…” Nails dig into palms. “Not sure.”

Heavy nods, slowly. “Can stay for a while. If this works, good; if not, I will go. Does this sound good?”

Yes. Yes, that could… It requires no firm decision. Just… good. You nod. “Thank you. You can—um—come in?”

Heavy shakes his head once. “Should not intrude. There is little library upstairs—usually quiet. But no need to leave if you do not want to.”

You consider it. “A… the library sounds nice. Just a minute—I’ll put some shoes on.” Never know what’s going to be on the floors of these halls, after all. Nails and bolts… among other things. You have three pairs here: the steel-toed boots for your uniform, an old pair of Keds, and some Mary-Janes for… reasons unknown. Maybe one day you’ll go into town. Maybe you knew you’d not be staying long. You tug the boots on and enter the hall behind Heavy. “Lead the way.” Your attempt at a smile is a poor one.

If he notices—and how could he not?—he draws no attention to it; only offers conversation: “Is probable Engineer did not think of it when he showed you the base. Is pretty new, and mostly only me and Demoman using it.”

You nod. “Where did the books come from?”

“We all have our own books, but if there are some we do not mind others borrowing, they go there. Others we buy on trips to town. We will be here some time.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “Should have library.”

You couldn’t agree more with the sentiment. “I do love books.”

He rumbles a chuckle. “Me, too! Not many in library yet, and is very hard to find books in Russian here. I read books here to help with English. But so many words! Always using dictionary.”

“I can’t even read your alphabet,” you confess. “You’re one up on me.”

“Is not competition.”

“It would be useful, though!” If you stay. It would be good to know him better. You fall silent, and follow the mercenary up the rough-cut wooden steps. Some of the stairs don’t match the others, as though recently replaced after some accident. The days here have been so busy—you haven’t actually _seen_ any unsafe practices yet (Demo, constantly drinking and working with explosives, or Medic, with his seemingly distracted nature, come to mind as likely perpetrators), but the evidence seems to be everywhere, from cracks in the tiled bathroom walls to the dented refrigerator, to scorch marks on the main hall’s floor, to these half-repaired stairs.

You almost run straight into Heavy on the top step. “Here.” He opens the door on the left for you.

It seems the room was little more than a supply closet before two overstuffed armchairs, a table, and two low bookcases, stacked atop one another, moved in. Three shelves bolted to the back wall (they likely held some boxes or cleaning supplies for the base originally) are packed with books. You step into the space, and pull the chain that lights the fluorescent fixture above. There’s a lamp on the table that might be more ambient, but even with the flickering, white lights… the room is serviceable—cozy, even. You head immediately for the stacks of books on the back wall as Heavy ducks through the low doorway, angling himself to one side to get through the narrow opening.

Two dictionaries—one brand-new and another at least a decade old—some dime-store mystery novellas, and a couple of Mark Twain’s works cover the first shelf. The second is packed on one side with comic books, on the other with classics: Bronte, Dickens, Tolstoy, Hawthorne, and Shakespeare.

“Am always trying to make Scout read _The Death of Ivan Ilyich_. Is not working.”

You chuckle. “Does he read anything at all?”

He nods. “Yes. Comic books, but also likes Twain novels. Is too difficult for me to understand the Mississippi English, and no translation to Russian in my collection yet.” He shrugs. “So I have not read them. But I did try.”

“Well…” Your eyes roam the shelf, warmly studying the spines both brand-new and—er—well-loved. “ _Ivan Ilyich_ is one I haven’t read… if Scout won’t read it, I can.”

But Heavy shakes his head. “Maybe you can convince him. Chose it for Scout. You—I have to think first on book for you.” You can feel your face fall—confusion, annoyance (does he think it would be too difficult for you to grasp?)—and the man offers a smile. “I like to give books with meaning,” he explains. “You could read _Ilyich_ … but would rather give you book that means more.”

“Oh.”

“For example, gave Doktor _Crime and Punishment_ —Dostoyevsky.”

You can feel your jaw tighten at the mention of Medic. You combat the stirring guilt by running your fingers along the loose binding of the first book you can see: a weathered, coffee-stained copy of _Wuthering Heights_. You hear the big man settle into one of the armchairs with a creak.

“Did he like it?” You ask, after a moment, feeling the concave contour of the spine beneath your fingers, tracing along the pages’ edges at the top, soft, smelling faintly of must.

Heavy chuckles. “Did not give it to him to like. You have read it?”

“Yes, a couple years ago.” _For college_ , you almost add, but you bite your tongue and gently tug the next book—a tiny volume of Shakespeare’s tragedies—from the shelf.

“Well, Doktor liked to _disagree_ with it.”

You consider the story’s end, Raskolnikov’s romance and rationalism, a greatness eventually traded for humility, truth, and religion—and juxtapose it with your memory of the medic’s pride, his boundless exuberance, the careless air when discussing your momentary death during surgery the very first day you met. “I bet he did.”

“But he did enjoy reading. Liked many of the ideas; this is how I choose a book to share. Scout is good Catholic boy, but also fighting war without thinking about what it means—would benefit from _Ilyich_. Is about life, from view of death.”

Catholic? You wonder how Heavy knows, and what it has to do with this particular novel.

“But you…” He muses, before you can ask. “Will take time.”

You nod, replace the book on the shelf, and move to explore the smaller shelves braced on the adjacent wall, behind Heavy’s chair. The top one is filled with myths and legends, worn tomes that look suspiciously like they chronicle some kind of black magic. It’s… peculiar.

“So—only you and Demo and sometimes Scout come up here?”

“Sometimes Sniper borrows books, but I do not think he reads here. Spends most days in van.”

At the mention of Sniper, you abandon your attempt to find out more about this strange collection of tomes. “Van?”

Heavy nods. “Sniper has big… van with house. Er—camper, _da?_ ”

“Oh—yeah.” Your brow furrows. Now or never, right? The opportunity to take care of this… bit of business has fallen right in your lap. “He doesn’t stay in his room?”

“Not often, no.”

You bite your lip. “Would he be there now?”

Heavy tips his head to look at you. “Why?”

“Sniper was…” You sigh. “He tried to help me before you arrived, and I want to thank him.”

The man nods. “Probably in van. Is almost ten o’clock? Will likely be there. Would you like me to go with you?”

You hesitate. It would be good to have his company, some support, but… “No, thank you. I appreciate it, but I should probably… I need to do it myself.”

“I will be here. You know where to go? Just to left of front door, in main yard.” He lays a gentle hand on your shoulder as you pass; he didn’t even have to rise from his chair to reach. You tilt your head, questioning. “Should not be alone on field tomorrow. Will stay with someone, yes? Maybe Scout. You work well together.”

You nod, slowly. Yes, that—it’s an excellent point. You don’t want to talk about it, not now, but… you’ll make sure you’re not alone again. “Yes. I’ll… I can do that.” Heavy returns your nod, and releases your shoulder. You take a breath, and start out before you lose your courage. You stop, there in the doorway. “Heavy… thank you.”

“Was nothing.” His eyes are sincere—and sad.

With the best smile you can muster, you hurry out into the night.

* * *

 

The camper’s beige walls seem almost blue beneath the midnight of the desert sky, and the moon’s silvery beams play upon the cracked soil, no sound in the air but your breath, and the faint hum of a radio crooning from a mercenary’s open window. You hesitate under the moonlight, shivering in the rapidly cooling night, at the door to Sniper’s lonely vehicle.

Now, looking up at a door peppered with more than a few haphazardly repaired bullet holes, your stomach turns. What will you say?

“Are you gonna stand there for anotha ten minutes, or are you gonna knock?”

You jump back from the muffled voice. “Sorry—I—if you’re going to bed, I can—”

The camper’s door swings open to reveal the sniper, leaning in the frame. “Might as well come in.” He shrugs. “You have somethin’ to say, right?”

You nod dumbly as he waves you in, and you climb the aluminum steps.

Inside, it seems almost too small for the lanky Australian—not to mention for you and your ample shoulders, your long legs, the heavy boots you insisted upon wearing out here when really you could have just—

“Sit.” Sniper nods to a bench wrapped halfway around a little table in the style of a discreet breakfast nook. You scoot in hurriedly, fold your hands, bite the inside of your cheek. _Shit_. The hell are you doing here after ten o’clock at night?

The man looks at you expectantly, mouth a fine, grim line. His Akubra is tipped jauntily to one side as though he had donned it as an afterthought before letting you in. He folds his arms.

Right, right. What the hell are you doing here—that’s exactly what he wants to know.

“I—uh—” You sigh. “I’m not sure how to…” You avert your gaze to the tabletop, the linoleum cracked in more than one place, hairline fractures sparking across its surface. “I want to thank you for… earlier. And apologize.” You raise your head. “I’m sorry for… all that. You shouldn’t have had to see that or…” You swallow. “I’m sorry.”

But the sniper only shrugs his lanky shoulders. “No ‘arm done.”

Your mouth drops open. No. No, there was most definitely harm. “I’m—I’m pretty sure I—”

“Yeah, you hit me; it happens.”

 _What?_ “Uh—I—”

You think you hear him chuckle, but it ceases so quickly that you’re not entirely sure. “Look, sheila—Specialist—I know wot happened. Happens to everybody.” He shrugs. “’cept maybe the medic, but he’s a bit crackers, innit he? Well—‘im and Pyro—but not a soul on earth knows about Pyro, anyway.”

“You—”

Sniper nods. “It’s normal. Well—normal for our job. And our job’s not exactly—” He clears his throat. “Well. You know.”

“Oh.” You fold your hands, worry one of the buttons on the bottom of your shirt. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

The sniper works a kink out of the back of his neck. You flick the button until you’re sure it’s in danger of coming loose. Silence stretches into the camper’s stuffy air.

“So…”

“Well…”

“Good talk,” you offer, with what you hope looks like a passable, if sheepish, smile.

“Yeah.” He nods.

You scoot out of the seat. “I’ll—er—see you tomorrow, then?”

He opens the door. “Yeah.”

You try not to hurry down the steps. You really do. “I appreciate… thanks. Good night!”

“’Night.”

 _Well_ —you decide, hurrying across the moonlit yard— _that didn’t go horribly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The text at the beginning is, once again, from Alexandre Dumas' _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , translated by Lowell Bair. 
> 
> Many thanks again to orchiids, who helped a great deal with Heavy's dialogue as well as keeping me on track! 
> 
> Updates will be spaced out a little further now that classes have started, but I promise they'll not cease!
> 
> (Oh--I nearly forgot to mention that there's now a blog tumblr under the url purple-compromise if anyone is interested in some of the information I've gathered in reference to weapons and such mentioned in this fic, or TF2 goodness in general, and even some fanart done for the fic by a couple fabulous people(*cough*fabulouspotatosisterandmechan0latry*cough*); feel free to give me a shout over there!)


	14. To See the Job Done

The fourth night, you sleep like the dead (and try not to dwell on that simile, actually) until you wake to darkness, whole body aching down to your bones. The moonlight glares just enough on the alarm clock for you to know that it’s a little after three. Far too early to be up and ready for battle.

You try to roll over and go back to sleep, but _shit_. Every muscle groans and seizes in protest. So, you hiss, and gently, gradually stretch each limb from where you lie, stifling the sounds of complaint. You’ve been sore the last few nights, sure, but not like this; you feel like you’ve been hit by a car, your body has reduced to one big bruise. It defies all understanding! You haven’t done anything differently or particularly strenuous since you were fixed up by the medi-gun. And even if you hadn’t received treatment, anything major enough to cause this kind of pain is always solved by respawn—

Oh. Shit. You forgot to take your vitamin yesterday.

You sit up, groaning, and open the bedside drawer to dump one of the pills into your aching hand. Even your joints complain as you unscrew the lid. It seems the doctor knew what he was doing in prescribing these. Imagine that.

Ugh—but you don’t want to swallow the capsule without water. Grimacing, you push yourself off the bed and set the pill aside. Maybe you should just keep a bottle in here.

You shake your head. Bottled water. It had seemed ridiculous to you, until Miss Pauling explained that anything coming out of the tap here was somewhat hazardous. You didn’t inquire any further after that; ‘somewhat hazardous’ is quite enough of an explanation for you when it comes to drinking water.

You tug the shorts on from this afternoon, slip your Keds onto bare feet, and creep into the hall. It’s some distance to the mess hall from the team’s quarters; you shiver, and buckle in for a long, chilly walk that already isn’t helping your sore muscles. Hell, even breathing seems like a chore in the crisp, night air. Some obnoxious snoring finds its way through this corridor, and it doesn’t help the too-early-in-the-damn-morning headache cropping up behind your eyes.

At least you won’t be running into anyone at this hour.

You round the first corner. And then, the next, lit only by milky emergency lights placed about every fifteen feet, casting eerie shadows across the floorboards, highlighting a gouge here or there in the plaster and wood, something that might be a scorch mark or old blood. Your sneakers make almost no sound as you move along, nothing but your breath on the air and the faint hum of those caged bulbs. It’s… well… you’d have to be half out of your mind not to find it a little creepy.

It occurs to you that you’ll have to pass the medical wing on your way to the promise of fresh water. You shake your head. Medic won’t be there, anyway. Not at three o’clock in the morning with no in-house patients or emergencies to speak of. The thought eases your nerves.

Medic is…

You’re just not ready to speak to him yet. Not when getting this job relies so much on his professional opinion of your health. Not after yesterday.

You have straightened yourself out a bit, yes. You’re… pretty confident that you won’t be mistaking him for that BLU sonovabitch again. It’s just—it’s something you’re not ready for. Not right now. Not if he plans to write up the final medical report and send it straight to the Miss Pauling’s desk…

Your fingers curl, nails digging into palms. Now is not the time to think about that.

The infirmary—dark, shadowed doors and chairs—sits silently on your right, and you pass without incident.

Now is the time to take your vitamin and get back to bed before morning. You have a job to do, after all. There’s no room for panic, and no room for sleepless nights.

You fetch a cold bottle from the little refrigerator without turning on the main fluorescents, moving slowly through the grey shadows. There’s just enough light from the emergency lamps in the hall to tell Demo’s brown bottles from the little, labelled ones shipped in by RED. You clasp it between your fingers and hurry back into the hall, but—

A flash of movement.

You freeze, barely two steps from the door.

There’s someone near the infirmary. Collared shirt, tall boots, dark hair—he passes beneath one of the lamps and white light gleams on his spectacles.

In the next breath, you dive back into the mess hall, clutching the cold bottle between your fingers, eyes shut tight, listening…

What color—what color was the tie draped around his neck? Did you imagine the wrath evident in the turn of his lip? Your heart hammers against your ribs. You listen, strain your ears. No sound. Not the click of boots, not the swing of the infirmary doors.

You’re not sure if your hands have begun to sweat or if it’s merely the condensation on the water bottle that has made your palms slick. You bite your tongue, draw a sharp breath, try to keep the sound muffled in your throat, and peer around the corner—slowly now—

Nothing. Empty halls. Silent shadows.

Like you imagined the whole thing. Not that there was much. But… hallucinating a whole person, surely—

You frown, straighten up, and creep into the hall.

This is stupid.

You march to your room (quietly, no sense in waking anyone up or… drawing any attention whatsoever), sparing a single glance at the med-bay doors as you pass. Nothing. Not a light, not a lingering swing of the doors on silent hinges. Like you’d been wrong after all. Just… tired. You’re just tired. It’s early. You’ll take your pill, get a couple more hours of sleep, and be as good as new in the morning.

Good as new.

* * *

The second time you wake, to your usual alarm, the aches have faded to a mere background sensation, as crickets compared to the jarring steam engine of pain that had woken you in the dark. You don your last clean uniform, and stretch in the grey light of morning, loosening your muscles, massaging away the aches, and finally finishing the now-warm bottle of water on your nightstand. New day; new opportunity. Two left after this.

You buckle the Lancaster to your thigh before heading to the kitchen for a nice strong mug of caffeine and a slice of toast. Demo is at the table again, and this time, you catch him pouring a shot of _something_ into his tea. “G’mornin’,” he mumbles, setting the brown bottle aside.

“Morning.” You bring a mug down from the cabinet with a clink and give it a once-over. There seems to be old coffee ringing the bottom. You grimace, and decide to wash it first.

“So, you like the work all righ’?” Demoman asks as you pour a little soap into the white porcelain (of course, nearly everything here has the team color on it, and this cup is no exception; the outside of the mug reads ‘RED’ in proud, scarlet letters).

You nod, casting a glance over your shoulder. “It’s… I like it.” And you do. Truly. All— _complications_ —aside.

“I thought so.” He takes a long drink from the mug with a satisfied sigh. “That little smile ‘a yours when you nail one o’ them buggers in th’ face—” He chuckles. “Y’make a charge tae be proud of, that’s fer sure.”

Your brow furrows as you rinse your mug. Sure, you’ve bloodied the scout’s nose, struck the pyro full in the mask… but in your mind, it seems you’d rather not be close enough to do either. But he’s right. It’s damn satisfying, and you find yourself smiling at the mere thought. “Thank you.” You give the mug another once-over. Better. “Use many shields yourself?” you ask. The way he expressed the compliment, it seemed perhaps…

“Aye, from time to time. Y’ever hear of a targe? Good Scottish weapon! Steeped in tradition! Why—”

“Good morning!” Scout waltzes through the mess doors, chipper as a damn robin. You shoot him a _Look_ ; you’ve only just poured your cup. That kind of energy before breakfast just isn’t fair.

“Scout, don’t ye know better than t’interrupt, lad? Sit yer arse in that chair an’—”

“Morning, Scout. You were saying about the targe, Demo?”

“Ain’t we s’posed ta hold off on that? I thought—”

“It’s in the original contract, boy—didn’t ya read the bloody thing?”

“Yeah, yeah, I signed it, but—”

Oh. You take a steaming gulp from your mug. You put it together: they must be arguing about secondary weapon sets. Part of the arrangement with RED was to use the standard issue stuff before purchasing your own (plus another four sections regarding what can and can’t be used for certain classes, defining your class, regulations regarding approved weapons depots—the damn US military didn’t bother with half that amount of regulations…); not that you could really afford to buy anything until you’d received a couple paychecks. You assumed the rest of the team had been made to go standard as a control to see how the introduction of a new class would function and how the team dynamic would fare.

“—smart enough tha’ it’s not gonna complicate anything!”

“Shut up! Too early for arguing!” The room goes dead silent as Heavy strides, glaring, through the door, and you certainly don’t blame anyone involved. He continues on to the coffee pot, a great, lumbering giant, and, evidently, _not_ a morning person. You scoot out of the way and take a seat at the table.

“Morning,” he greets as you pass.

“Good morning, Heavy.”

He mumbles something you’re not entirely sure is English and pours himself a mugful of coffee. He drinks the first sip black, then adds enough sugar from the canister to make you certain the bottom of that cup _has_ to be a silty pile of sugar.

Scout drums his fingers on the tabletop, and Demo sips from his not-just-tea. “Need a pick-me-up?” he offers, waving the bottle in Heavy’s direction.

“ _Nyet_.”

“How ‘bout you, lass?”

You arch a brow. “What is it?”

He chuckles. “Fine batch o’whisky, it is.”

It has to be better than the beer you’d had the other night. You offer your mug. “Thanks!” You could use a little something to steady your nerves today. Keep your thoughts from _that incident_ you’re definitely not thinking about. You watch the amber liquid sink into the mug—rather more than a shot, you suspect—as Demo fills your cup to the brim.

“Specialist.”

You turn. Ah, shit—if he thinks he’s going to chastise you for drinking before seven in the morning… “Yes, Heavy?”

But he simply eyes the pistol on your thigh, quite unconcerned with the mug between your hands. “You will stay with me today, _da?_ ”

You feel the blood drain from your face. What happened to his suggestion to stick with Scout? If Medic is anywhere, it’s close to—

“Will be only you and me. I need cover; we can try new strategy.”

You hope the panic hadn’t been evident on your face. It’s not that you don’t—you’re an adult. You can work with Medic. But, after yesterday… You fold both hands tightly around the mug, take a sip, let the liquor-laced liquid calm your whirling thoughts, release the tension already building in your shoulders. There’s a comfortable burning along your throat now. “No problem.” Why does Heavy expect to be alone? Where will… You shrug off the thought. No matter. You have a job to do, and you’ll see it done.

Heavy nods and finishes his coffee in one impressive gulp. He offers a dark smile. “Will make tiny baby-men cry.”

“Oh, come on,” Demoman rolls his eye. “Gonna keep her all day, are ye? I can’t work with the lass?”

You can’t help but feel a warm little rush of pride, and hide your smile on the rim of your mug.

“Maybe tomorrow.” The Russian rinses his dish in the sink. “I called first.”

Scout laughs. “Too slow, Demo!”

Perhaps you’re not a complete failure after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to my amazing beta, orchiids, and for all the support I've received from the lovely readers. I can't express how much I appreciate all of you! From kind words, to art, to speculation, this is an absoutely amazing experience, and I wish I knew better how to say thank you. 
> 
> As I said, with the semester going into full swing, I've written far enough ahead that updates will continue steadily, about every 1.5-2 weeks, so we won't have to stop while I get all my coursework done. (And the next chapter is rather lengthier and a bit of a doozy, so we all have a little something to definitely look forward to ;) )
> 
> And if you're looking for a little extra entertainment, and haven't already, I have a TF2 blog going under the url purple-compromise on Tumblr if you'd like to join us there for between-update references and antics!


	15. Lend a Hand (If You Have One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all have been incredibly patient in waiting for more--so please, have three chapters, just for you! Thank you so very much for your support and patience, and I do hope you enjoy this long-awaited update.
> 
> Warning for: blood, graphically described injuries, and death

In the locker room, you find Heavy and stand in his silent shadow, simultaneously trying not to stare and not to blatantly avoid looking as Medic flits in, a darkness upon his brow, glasses perched so far down the bridge of his nose that you can see sleepless circles under his eyes. Perhaps he _had_ been wandering the halls last night.

You can’t decide if that’s better or worse than a hallucination.

He fixes his gaze upon you and your eyes drop immediately to your feet. Shit. But, beneath the murmuring of your teammates, the click of Medic’s boots comes no closer, straying instead to the long line of lockers.

In your tangle of nerves, you look up at Heavy, and the man seems _invincible_. He has to be seven feet tall! How on earth can you defend this man? Anyone else, sure, but Heavy… a veritable walking fortress, if you’ve ever seen one. You’re fairly certain he could perch you on one shoulder and carry Scout under the other without trouble. Not to mention that you can’t take point the way you might with anyone else, on pain of about a dozen bullets in your back. Heavy is the very _definition_ of defense, capable of cover fire over a wide area, and fists like hammers should anyone get too close. How on earth can you defend something so… self-defensible?

[ _Five_.]

Your eyes wander from the top of his shaven head to his unarmored legs. You’ll cover his six, you decide, make sure no one flanks your Russian giant. Yes. You almost nod to yourself, right there in the middle of spawn. Not a soul will get close. Two layers of Kevlar? Those BLUs will be lucky if he even feels a tickle.

[ _Three_.]

You look up to find Heavy staring down at you, and can’t help but grin. “Ready to make some assholes regret getting up this morning?”

He laughs. “Will make them run for cover!”

[ _One. Go!_ ]

Medic is suddenly on your partner’s other side, and you barely catch yourself before recoiling into the Russian’s shadow. “Heavy,” he says. “ _Danke_.” But the man only nods, and before you can wonder at the exchange, the doctor is off, through the doors, and out of sight, rivaling Scout for speed.

“Ready?” Heavy asks.

You nod, readjusting your grip on the folded shield. Now is not the time to wonder. “Ready.”

“GO!” He lumbers forward, Sascha lovingly clasped in his burly arms—the gun almost seems not to weigh a thing as his shoulders shift and flex in fine planes beneath Kevlar and cotton. You follow, and as you leave the gate, the bullets in Heavy’s bandolier gleam bronze in the morning light of the sun.

The first, dry breath of desert air reaches your lungs, prickles your throat, and the first shots of the day ring out over soil and sand. The Gyrojet is cold in your fingers, gunmetal gleaming. Breathe. Focus—and the barrels of Heavy’s mini-gun spin to life as you round the first corner behind him.

Your doppelganger sitting comfortably on the point was not the first challenge you wanted to see today, but you’ll take it. The lead rain of Heavy’s bullets keeps the BLU specialist behind her shield, unmoving. It would be the perfect opportunity to get around behind for—

A wisp of red. A flash of silver. And you can almost hear the BLU’s gurgle as she chokes on her own blood and collapses upon the point. There’s a sympathy pang of pain below your shoulder-blade, but you shrug it off and shake your head as Spy fades again in to thin air.

Huh. So he doesn’t just fuck off to God-knows-where every day.

Heavy takes the opportunity to make the push before any reinforcements arrive—and you follow, close on his heels, snapping your shield to full height, eyes on each flank.

Scout has already made it to the unoccupied point, as Soldier takes down the Demo and Pyro coming up on his nine with a pair of rockets. Things seem clear, clear, _entirely too clear_. Just where is the medic? The BLU heavy? Their soldier? Hanging back until your team makes the next push, pooling their strength to regain what’s shortly to be taken?

Or—

You spin in a tight arc, check your six. Nothing. Pyro has taken a position in the corridor, watching your back. They give you a thumbs-up. You return the gesture with a nod and a grin.

[ _RED has taken control of the point_.]

A fine start to the day. The only thing that would make it better is a nice, cold glass of tea.

Engineer appears behind you. “I’m settin’ up a sentry; y’all keep goin’.”

You nod.

“ _Da_. We continue push.”

“Right behind you, Heavy.”

“You, too, Pyro—git goin’.”

And you see Heavy’s shoulders tense.

And then, voice at your ear: [“Y’all, that engineer’s a spy!”]

You blanch. Oh, shit. But even as you turn, Pyro is there, and the acrid scent of burned flesh assaults your nose, the spy’s wails echoing off the nearby sheds and low walls.

You barely keep your meager breakfast down (and that whiskey you accepted from Demo definitely isn’t helping). The worst in the scent is burned hair. Acid and smoke, a smell that reaches into your throat and clutches at it until you choke. You manage a “Thanks, Pyro” before hurrying behind Heavy as fast as your legs can carry you. Burning is a death you have no desire to witness, even if it is that BLU asshole of a spy… flesh melting off bone and simmering sinew, the slow cease of thrashing limbs… No. You keep your eyes fixed on Heavy’s broad back. Best not to think about it.

“Hurry up, slowpokes!” Scout doubles back around the alley you and Heavy are crossing. “They’ve got a shit-ton set up over there; gonna need the firepower ta clean ‘em out.”

Heavy grins. “We will kill them all!”

His excitement is infectious. You don’t doubt his ability—or yours. “What’re we looking at?”

“Heavy, Engineer and sentry, the demo respawned and I almost got blown ta Hell by a sticky trap, so watch that—and the soldier.”

Three on four? Five if you count the sentry. If… Your brow furrows. Should you? Do you have the authority? It didn’t hurt to ask. It isn’t as though there’s a hierarchy—no captain to defer to. Your fingers find the button on your earpiece. “Spy. What’s your position?”

[“You do realize this channel is not the most secure.”]

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Can you make it to the second point when we push?”

A pause. [“We’ll see if I can make time for it.”]

You click the button again, closing the channel. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He will be there,” Heavy assures. “How long can you withstand sentry fire?”

“As long as it takes,” you respond.

He shakes his head as Scout shifts nervously from foot to foot, watching both entrances to the alley. “Do not need hero. We need you alive to capture point. How long?”

You shake out your shield-arm, feel the Kevlar and steel drag upon your shoulder. “At least ten minutes, maybe more. It’ll take a while to punch through even the window.”

He nods. “Good.”

Scout whistles. “Good shit, there. Now can we get a move on? We don’t need that spy sneakin’ up on us while we make a decision!”

“Specialist will draw sentry fire; Scout can get behind, hit Engineer first. I will flank other side, keep them down until Spy takes care of sentry. We are ready?”

You nod. “Can do.”

“Great! See ya on the other side; I’ll wait about five seconds for Spesh to get into position. Soon s I hear the sentry, I’m in.”

“Good. Go!”

Scout doubles back and Heavy hurries ahead, out of sight; you position yourself at the mouth of the alley, grip your shield, take a breath. You know well that the point is just beyond, to the right. Perhaps six steps will bring you even. Another breath—and you launch yourself into the dust, crouched low, shield wall before you, already absorbing the first hail of bullets, vibrating along your arm. The Plexiglas cracks and complains, but holds steady, quickly pounded into a white film, capturing the copper shells. Six steps exactly.

Perhaps you’d underestimated the power and velocity of a full sentry, but you dig your heels into the soil, sneak a peek to the right—hear Scout whoop and the discharge of a shotgun beneath the din that shakes your shield. The whir of a mini-gun. Damn. The shudder of the shield reverberates down to bone, rattles your joints. If Spy doesn’t take the damn thing down soon…

You cast a glance over your shoulder. That’s the _other_ thing you don’t need at this moment: a flanking maneuver. But there is nothing—not even a waver in the air that might signal the BLU spy’s approach.

You fire of a couple shots in the direction of the point, no idea if you’ve hit anything—there’s nothing to be seen, and if you try to snatch another glimpse, the odds of falling are great, to say the least, as bullets whistle and kick up sand around you. Gods, how much longer can you crouch here? It seems the BLUs are busy with Heavy and Scout, but where the hell is Spy? How long have you been here, the disturbing crack and rattle and clatter jostling you to your core? You bring the Gyrojet close to your torso and hit the switch on your earpiece.

“What’s everybody’s status? I can’t hold here much longer.” Another long crack appears in the window of your ballistic; you can see nothing now but mock cobwebs tangled up with bullet shells.

One breath, two. Three, four, five.

You grit your teeth. Shit.

Try to bail or hold out? If you move, and Heavy and Scout still live, they won’t stand a chance.

Really, there’s no choice. So you buckle in. Fire three more rounds around your shield—

The pistol clatters to the ground. You look—

The flesh of your hand is shredded, glove in ragged tatters, muscle torn, bone showing white through a crimson flood that drips and gushes onto the orange soil. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh fuck. Stupid, stupid, stupid_. The pain—almost doesn’t register as such; a distant burn, an ache that rivals your memory of that first day on the field with a gunshot wound to the shoulder, mind whirling; _damn fucking moron!_ Tears refuse to fall from your eyes to kill the pain that is now forefront, so you scream, you yell—starting with curses and finishing on a frustrated, wordless syllable.

Finally, the shudder of your shield stops, and so you take the instant to strip the glove from your non-dominant hand and wrap it in a makeshift, shoddy leather tourniquet around the ruined flesh. You hiss as it closes over your useless fingers. _Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Damn—fuck_. Your fucking trigger finger is missing and your thumb is useless. You decide not to look for the severed mess; that’s a sight you don’t need. But your Gyrojet—

Oh, hell. There it is, disembodied and still on the trigger. Fine. _Fucking fine_. You grit your teeth and shake the flesh off the pistol, scooping the weapon up against your shield, into your non-dominant hand.

_This_ is going to go well, you just know it. Blood races, hot anger and embarrassment fueling every motion as you spring to your feet and charge the point. You’re down one hand; it doesn’t fucking matter now how many BLUs are up there. And you’re definitely not calling for Medic. This situation is already embarrassing enough as it is. Best to capture the damn point and let respawn take care of it; that’s as good a plan as any right now, when you’re as good as dead sitting here with one hand waiting for aid. You can feel the blood run down your arm, between leather and ruined skin, onto the ground. You might be a little light-headed already. It might be blood loss. It could be shock.

In any case, you unleash a roar as you throw yourself upon the point, and fire the last of your clip into the injured soldier, who drops immediately, spilling his own blood all over the steel; it gleams in the sun.

“ _What the holy fuck, Spesh?_ Sweet mother of—”

“I’M FINE.” You drive the shield with the full force of your shoulder into the slack-jawed BLU engineer before that asshole can get his wrench in range, and grunt with satisfaction as Scout finishes him off with a pistol round. Ugh. Nothing but pain, pain, and more pain. Why the fuck couldn’t it have been anything but your fucking hand?

Stupid. Stupid shit. You have half a mind to stomp that engineer’s corpse into the ground for the mess his sentry made.

“Specialist!”

You turn to face Heavy, trying not to jostle your dominant hand—what’s left of it—any more than necessary. “Good to see you,” you manage.

[ _RED team has taken control of the point!_ ]

“Now, I think I’ll—”

“Have you called for Medic?” The man hefts his mini-gun in one, mighty arm to turn you gently to get a better look at your hand. You stare at your boots and the bloodstained point instead of meeting his eye under the concerned furrow of his brow. “You need Medic now!”

Scout is still gaping. “Yeah, holy shit. DOC!”

“No, no—I’m fine.” You hiss as your instinct was to grab the boy with your decidedly non-functional hand. You drop it immediately, smearing blood across Scout’s shirt, and your vision wavers. “No—look. I’ll bleed out. Catch up with you on the next point. Until then, let’s keep moving, and I’ll—”

But Scout wipes the disgusted look off his face and hits the switch on his headset. “Hey, Doc, we need—”

“Even my shield looks like shit! _No_ —” Heavy lays a hand on top of your head.

[“Ach— _shut up!_ I am busy. Find a health pack. Wrap it up. Move on.”]

“Nah, that’s not gonna work, see—Spesh’s hand—”

Heavy’s massive palm leaves your crown and clicks the switch on his earpiece. “Specialist has no trigger finger. Will take long time to bleed out. She cannot use her hand.”

Silence. “Heavy… please.” You grit your teeth, and your hand, your one functioning hand, is full of both shield and pistol—you can’t hit the radio yourself to apologize or—

“Insists she is fine,” he adds grimly.

And then, across the sand and soil, echoing between stone and wood and steel, a drawn-out wail reaches your ears, amplified through the mic; it grates across your skin, the chilling sound reaching down to bone. Scout shivers visibly. It sets your teeth on edge. Heavy’s eyes, serious as ever, don’t even give a lingering blink.

[“Fine,”] Medic hisses. [“I will continue zhis later. You know where to find me.”]

“ _Da_.” Heavy closes the line and fixes you under his stony gaze. “You see? Is not so bad.”

Yeah, ok. You swallow, wishing you had a free hand to rub the goosebumps from your skin. You’re under no illusions about that sound. Your cheeks, to top it all off, still burn with embarrassment. “Heavy. _I’m fine_. I can fight until I fall; it wouldn’t have been a problem. I—”

He shakes his head firmly. “No. Part of team. Could not have point without you. There is no need to die; Doktor has no one else to heal.”

“Yeah, I mean—I get not wantin’ to bother Medic, I guess, since he seems pretty pissed today, but damn, Spesh! Let somebody give ya a hand! The doc won’t hold it against ya later. Promise! I mean—if he did, you’da never met me.”

“But I’m—” You snap your mouth closed, grind your teeth. You’re what? Nobody? Unstable? Not worth the time? “Let’s just go.”

Heavy nods. “This way.”

“Where I think it is?” Scout asks.

“Yes.”

Heavy lays a massive hand on your shoulder as the boy skips ahead. He keeps his voice low as you stride after Scout, biting your tongue against the pain (for you’ll be damned if you start complaining now). “Will be fine. Doktor is not angry with you. Will heal you. Has part of what he wants today, anyway; he should be more focused on team.”

You’re no fool. That ungodly scream had to do with whatever Medic’s personal mission was today, and as much as you’re sure you don’t want to know… you _need_ to. Especially after he’d told you to hold off on your own vengeance until the opportune moment.

But really, you’re well aware there’s only one thing it could have been.

The destination, as it happened, was a shed—one you’d previously assumed locked. Inside... Scout’s hands are raised in a placating gesture, but Medic’s glower still has you biting your cheek.

“See, Doc, I told ya—”

“I said I was fine.”

Medic rolls his eyes behind his spectacles. “You are not fine, Specialist,” he replies sharply. “Now—where is the finger?”

Your brow furrows. “Er… the finger? Back on the ground where I got shot.”

“Ach, for—” He bares his teeth. “No. I can’t fix it without… the medi-gun doesn’t just regrow limbs or digits or anything else!”

“ ‘Cept teeth,” mutters Scout, but that only earns him a wicked leer.

“ _Doktor_ —”

“Heavy, please.” Medic rubs his temples, then fixes you in an icy gaze. “It has nothing to do with you.” He shoots the Russian a look that clearly says ‘there—toned it down; happy?’ and sighs. “You didn’t know, of course. _These two_ , however, should know better!” His jaw tightens as your gaze flicks to your boots. “You expected respawn to catch you, _ja?_ That is your definition of ‘fine’? It will be several minutes before you bleed out, I wager.”

As you’d realized originally, this was _stupid_. The whole thing. Why are you even here? The four of you are wasting time.

“I can stop zhe bleeding, but without your trigger finger…” Another short, lingering sigh; the sound curls in the air, sharp and cold. “Turn around, _bitte_.”

You’re no fool.

But you do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to thatdamnokie over on Tumblr for acting as substitute beta!


	16. Failing That, Give Me Wrath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: blood, graphically described injuries, respawn sickness, strangulation, and torture

Concrete. Head spins. Nerves flare. Kneeling, you raise your hand beneath your gaze, flex it, fingers exactly as they should be, skin rippling, bare, leather of your fingerless glove flexing along your knuckles. Good. You stand on shaking legs in respawn.

It… you’re seldom aware of the instant of death, but it’s usually preceded by some pain or inkling of where, when, and who had delivered the blow—what weapon and why. But whatever Medic had done left no memory of pain. One moment there, and the next, gone.

It’s a relief, and you will your blazing nerves to settle, stepping out of respawn on pins and needles. You hit the earpiece. “Scout, Heavy—still third point?”

[“Yeah. Ya feelin’ all right, Spesh?”] He sounded almost terse, and you feel your brow furrow as you retrieve the ballistic shield from your belt.

“Great, actually.” Only partly a lie. You’re not vomiting, at least. “You all holding fine?”

[“We’re good.”] You can hear gunshots. [“Can probably use some support on the left flank while we pu—STAY DOWN, JACKASS—while we push.”]

“I’ll be there asap.”

[“Heard that! See ya soo—YA LIKE THAT? I’M A FREAKIN’ FORCE ‘A NATURE, ASSHOLE!”]

You click the line to your mic closed and chuckle. You’re actually looking forward to catching up with the team.

You pass Engineer’s setup on the first point, and he tips his hat with a grin as you jog. It brings your attention to the sun glaring down on your own uncovered head; it might be a good idea to invest in a little something to shade the eyes.

 _Bang!_ Buckshot clatters off your shield as you round the next corner, and instinct brings it to full height with a snap. “You will meet your match, little Specialist.” The BLU heavy’s bulk blocks the narrow alley, broad shoulders nearly touching the wall of each dusty shed. A nasty grin spreads across his face, shotgun between hands that make it seem no bigger than a pistol with an extended barrel, massive mini-gun at his feet.

For an instant, your heart sinks, but then—your teeth bare in a slow smile. He wants to make a stand? In this little alley? A direct challenge with no way to flank? Oh, that’s a mistake on his part. You can feel a laugh stirring in your chest, but you keep it to yourself. “Sure about that?” you ask instead, and duck behind the shield when he fires again, and again, ineffectually. You raise your Gyrojet level with your ear and watch through the window—only somewhat fractured—as the heavy drops his shotgun to ready the mini-gun.

“Good thought,” you say. Oh, man—this is just what you needed. You waste no time in pulling the trigger.

_Shuhussssh!_

Blood splatters in wide patterns on both walls, and the mini-gun clatters to the ground as the BLU heavy clutches at his throat for the barest of instants. You fire again, and he falls. “Headshot. Almost the first try,” you shrug, cheeks burning with glee. “Close enough, no?” A laugh burbles up in your chest and you don’t bother to stifle it as you leap over the massive corpse and continue on.

What the hell had he been thinking? So proud he failed to realize he’s not the only walking fortress on this field?

Oh—haha! Indeed! A walking fortress, a wall of Kevlar and steel and Plexi. Better not let it go to your head.

“Heavy, I—”

Oh, fuck. You know that voice. Terror seizes your gut as he rounds the corner.

Well, at least his expression reflects yours. Wide eyes. Spectacles slipping down nose, frazzled in a way that tells you…

This was a trap. The heavy was meant to wait for support before cutting off RED reinforcements.

There’s a deep pain in your chest, and you struggle to keep drawing breath. You want to run, to not look back for even a moment. You want to stay and tear out his throat with your bare hands.

You think you’re going to be sick. You raise your shield as he gets his bearings. His gaze flicks to the corpse behind you. “I told you to wait!” He cries. Eyes, icy, return to you, and your grip on the Gyrojet tightens. You draw a sharp breath. You took down his giant. You can do this. There’s a deep crease between the medic’s brows. “Back for a follow-up _fräulein?_ ” The syllables rake your memory, but you dig your heels into the cracked soil, bite your cheek until a coppery tang fills your mouth, as it fades from the air, no doubt with the heavy’s corpse. He fires the syringe gun, but the dart bounces harmlessly off Kevlar. “And so soon, too.” But he does not grin, not like yesterday, ribbons and copper and red—

A feral cry tears from your throat. “Shut up! Just shut up!” You squeeze the trigger.

 _One, two, three, four_.

The medic screams, dropping to his knees in the dust. “Fick.” Three of four shots precisely where you intended: left shoulder, right shoulder, the junction of hip and thigh, torn through his white coat, slowly blossoming burgundy as blue gloves try to staunch the flow.

But it’s not enough, no, as a churning stomach turns to flame, a red wrath over your nerves, pouring life into every limb, the coppery tang in your throat spurring you forward.

Full-force, boots dig into soil and you throw yourself behind the shield, slam the man down into orange, cracked dirt, knocking glasses askew, spilling blood further into white linen, onto soil and sand. He grits his teeth against another cry, even as blood slowly trickles from his nose, then flows rapidly over his lips. Your shield pins him from shoulders to thighs, and you lie across it, facing him down eye to eye, pistol pressed into his jaw. His spits in your face, spattering his blood in flecks across your cheeks.

A laugh tears from your throat. Is this all? “Is this all?” you ask him, digging the barrel into the soft flesh between neck and chin. “Yesterday, after all— _this_ is what it takes?”

“Things don’t always follow as planned,” he growls. “If Heavy had waited for me, _fräulein_ —” You flinch, press the barrel until a hitched gasp escapes his lips. He laughs. “Oh, **_fräulein_** , you’ve given away a bit much, haven’t you? The sooner you finish me and get back to the battle, the sooner you can forget all this unpleasantness, **_fräulein_**.”

 _Fuck_. The way his voice curls cruelly along those syllables drags at your mind, plucks your nerves like the strings of a violin, high and shrill. Your jaw clenches. “You have nothing.” The barrel of your Gyrojet moves to his temple, presses until it forms a white ring just above the jointed arms of his spectacles. “You know why I don’t just pull the trigger and finish you? _I don’t want to_. If I do, you’ll just be dead, and then what?” You raise your arm and bring the pistol down at his hairline, watch the skin split and bleed as the BLU squeezes his eyes shut, grinds his teeth against blossoming pain.

“And I can’t bring you to death’s door and heal you up like new to do it all over again, now, can I? Where does that leave us?” you hiss. Drop the gun just above his head, and squeeze the man’s graceful throat.

But he laughs. “Will you waste your time with torture, zhen, ** _frä_** —”

Push your hand hard into the hard press of his Adam’s apple, wrap fingers around the frantic tendons and soft, giving flesh until his gasps become choking sounds, half-formed in a helpless throat. The medic does his best to sneer even as cheeks grow red and icy eyes dance wildly behind broken spectacles.

He tries so hard to move, but there is no decent angle to be found beneath the shield, and you know he cannot unseat you, not as his efforts become languid, the twitching beneath your palm less frequent.

You raise your hand.

He gasps, splutters, chokes. There’s a rush, a buzz starting in the back of your skull. He’ll die—oh yes—but not until _you_ decide. Not until you’re satisfied, and the memory of his fingers pawing through your intestines is distant, insignificant.

“A close simulation, isn’t it?” You ask as the BLU’s nostrils flare and eyes burn indignantly. But—he’s not looking at you.

“You could have continued for another twenty seconds without risk of brain death.”

Medic.

You raise your head.

The RED medic.

You feel your cheeks heat. How long has he been there? You wet your lips. “Another… twenty seconds?” You hadn’t been counting, in all honesty; just watching the pallor of his face, feeling the life falter beneath your fingers.

“ _Ja_.” What little sun there is in this alley catches his spectacles, and you swear his eyes are glittering.

“Do you… want to..?”

He shakes his head. “Not now. I do believe this is therapeutic. Do continue, _neue_.”

Well this doesn’t make you self-conscious. But the look of disgust curling the BLU’s bloody lips spurs you on. You grasp his neck again, but don’t squeeze, not yet. You wait for his icy gaze, but—

He won’t even look at you, leering up instead at the RED medic. As though—what? He’s more of a threat? More a threat than you— _you_ who strangled him half to death and are perfectly prepared to do it again? _You_ whom he wronged? _You_ with a greater thirst for reconciliation, with a desperate cause in your mind each and every morning? _You_ whose cause, after yesterday, was still in peril? _You_ snarl and grasp his chin. “Look at me. Not _him_. I don’t give a shit what he did earlier. _This_ is about yesterday.”  
The medic grins, closes his eyes. “Ah, _fräulein_. You’re going to waste part of your last forty-eight hours on me? I’m flattered.”

Your blood heats, races, rages behind your eyes. “ _My last hours here?_ I’ll— _look at me_. LOOK AT ME.” You seize his throat again, dragging the nails of thumb and forefinger into his jugular veins, digging until his eyes snap open. “Helplessness isn’t a good feeling, is it? Feels better to wish you would just hurry up and die, doesn’t it? Why don’t we move to that?” You press into the bullet wound at his shoulder, your thumb squicking through blood and muscle until you feel the either bone or the copper of the bullet—and he hisses.

[“Spesh, where the hell are ya? Can’t cap the point alone here!”]

Like a shock of cold water, dumped, icy, over your head. _Shit_.

Medic clears his throat, softly, and you raise your gaze. “ _Neue_ , I’ll finish this, if you don’t mind.”

You nod, slowly, and open the channel on your mic. “Sorry, Scout. Ran into the heavy and medic. I’ll be right there.”

[“Heard. Hurry it up, though; it’s gettin’ tense!”]

You close the line as Medic nods. “ _Gut_. And don’t worry, Specialist—” Your eyes follow the graceful line of his body from gleaming white shoulders to the curve of black-clad legs as he plants the heel of his jackboot on the BLU’s neck until his doppelganger chokes and writhes. “I’ll be sure he suffers.”


	17. Frankensteinian Accord

It seems such a short time later that you’re showered and laundered. Engineer had been glad to show you how to operate the “improved” laundry facilities, which include a washing machine and dryer that look like they’ve been tinkered with since the day they arrived. They each have a dozen buttons that appear to be non-functional or seem to match a doomsday device rather than a washing machine—but if it means you get incredibly clean clothes in one miraculous hour, you’ll take it without question. As far as you can tell, it’s just one incredible device after another on this base.

Like the medi-gun.

Now, with damp hair and pants and a button-down that smells like industrial soap with a hint of lemon, you stand at your little window, watching the sky change behind the bars. Orange fades into lilac. The sun is hidden behind distant mountains, and the desert glows salmon, then lavender under the sky.

And you wonder about suffering.

What, exactly, is Medic’s definition, and is it anything like yours?

Chapter twenty was your laundry-time reading today, and so very apt: “ _Let me make myself clear: I would fight a duel for an insult, a blow or a lie, and I’d do it with hardly a thought because, thanks to the skill I’ve acquired in all bodily exercises and the gradual way in which I’ve accustomed myself to danger, I’d be almost certain of killing my opponent. Oh, yes, I’d fight a duel for something of that sort; but for slow, profound, infinite and eternal suffering I’d try to avenge myself by inflicting similar suffering. ‘An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth_.’” The Count’s words ring true down to your bones.

Of course, there are some sufferings for which vengeance cannot be taken.

And your mother—your mother would advise forgiveness. But there are some things that simply cannot be forgiven.

 _Knock, knock, knock_.

You turn from the window and slowly register the wetness on your cheeks. “Yes?” You wipe the clear traces of tears from your face. Damn things are becoming all too common.

“ _Spezialist?_ May I speak with you, please?”

Your heart jumps to your throat. _Oh, hell_. Is he ready to admonish you now, especially after that display today? Let you know that the medical report for your employers will not pass scrutiny, and you’ll need to come to terms with your removal, send a letter home—

“ _Spezialist?_ ”

Today couldn’t have changed anything. You hardly looked any more stable strangling the life out of a man for some relief than you did during yesterday’s panic in the med-bay. “Sorry—just a second.”

You straighten up, shake out your arms as though you can fling the doubt and fear and frustration to the far corners of your room, take a long breath, and unlock the door. It reveals the medic, tall in his crisp coat—clean and blindingly white, his tie impeccably straight, fingers bare, polishing his spectacles on the lab-coat’s lapel.

“Good evening.”

“I—good evening.”

He replaces his glasses with a nod. “Where would you like to speak?”

You’re taken aback. “Here,” is the first thing that comes to your mind and tumbles out of your mouth. “Here is fine.” You step aside, and Medic glides through the door.

As he passes, you catch a scent on the air; he smells of antiseptic and spicy… resin?

The man finds a chair while you hesitate at the door. Should you leave it open? This is… a professional call, surely—as he sits, he moves the tail of his coat out of the way, lest it become wrinkled. You nod, brow furrowed, and close the door with a click.

As the sound reaches his ears, Medic’s brows arch. “A far cry from yesterday.”

Your cheeks heat. “I’m sorry. I am feeling better now.”

“Clearly.” He folds elegant hands over his lap, elbows resting on the arms of the chair.

“That wasn’t—” You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. “Yesterday, when… did I hu—”

“ _Nein_. Don’t worry about that. I’d worry more about how you’re going to control zhis.”

“Control…” Hot, indignant tears seal your throat, but do not yet touch your eyes. “I—”

“That—I’m sorry. I did not mean to accuse.” With a sigh, he removes the spectacles. “Sniper says my bedside manner needs work.” A dark chuckle. “Perhaps.” He cleans the immaculate lenses on the tail of his coat. “But I find it gets in the way of my work.”

Your jaw clenches. _Gets in the way_ , indeed.

“We are men of innovation, tools of destruction.” He replaces the glasses, peers over their edge. “Whatever the contracts say, we are _weapons_. Some take to it better than others. Some quickly, some slowly.”

You say nothing. What is there to reply? He’s seen what you are. The episode—the… the wrath on the field today, beyond any action that should be taken in war. And it’s going to cost you. Again. You bite your tongue to hold back the lingering tears. You won’t cry. They can sign the paper firing you from the company, but you won’t let them see you cry. Let him chastise you—he’ll be just another doctor, then, faceless in a white, sterile sea of hospital rooms with their wan nurses and frowning physicians delivering news with lead tongues and dead eyes that make you want to shove four barrels down their throats and show them how lead truly tastes—still less heavy and cruel than the judgements and the treatments and false comforts—

“To have these… episodes is not unusual. You need to know this.”

You shake your mother’s weary eyes from your mind. “The circumstances here—”

“Are unusual. But no less real, as you’ve learned, I’m sure. Particularly after yesterday.”

You’re quite certain ‘improved bedside manner’ doesn’t include reminding a patient of events that triggered a… panic. Panic. That seems like the right word.

“What happened to you yesterday—in the war, we called it shell-shock, and it didn’t often include such violence—at least, not right away.” Medic steeples his fingers, drops them, curls his fingers along the arms of the chair. “You’ll forgive me; psychology has never been my focus, but you have had two attacks so far, and I will need you to describe—”

You freeze. “Two?”

“ _Ja_.” He sighs. “The second day, during your shower; that was the first one, _nicht?_ Unless there was one I missed. I suspect you were experiencing a flashback to the battlefield or some recollection of pain?”

You purse your lips, nails digging into your palms. “How did you—”

His lips curl in a smirk. “While I may lack bedside manner, I have an affluence of attention, Specialist. If someone needs medical assistance, I know it.”

“Oh.” You swallow, settle on the bed, draw your legs up, crisscross, beneath you.

He nods. “Now, I need you to describe these episodes so that we can form a means of treatment.”

_We?_

Your mouth moves, but no sound comes out. This… even when the Navy discharged you from training, the doctors never… You frown. “It was like being back there,” you begin. “I can’t… tell that I’m actually at the base. It was the pain and—” Torn flesh, blood, wicked eyes. “—everything again. I don’t… I can’t make it stop, because I can’t tell it started.”

He’s pulled a little flip-pad from his pocket with a fountain pen. “And the emotions that accompany it?”

You hesitate.

Medic catches your eye over his spectacles. “ _Spezialist_ , it isn’t your fault.”

Your fingers curl, missing the grip of a pistol. “I really—”

“You don’t understand.” He heaves a sigh, taps a finger on the edge of the little, leather-bound notebook. “Heavy has experienced episodes like this.”

You blink. “ _Heavy?_ ” It—it _would_ explain how he had calmed you with such ease, but…

“Yes. At zhe risk of violating doctor-patient confidentiality, I will say—though—” He fixes you under his gaze, the harsh line of his brow igniting an instantaneous shiver down your spine. “I trust you will _tell no one. Ja?_ ”

Your flesh crawls. You nod. “Of course. I won’t.”

“Gut.” And the wrath leaves his features as quickly as a lone cloud in the desert sky. “You would say Heavy is fearless, yes? A pillar of strength, truly an Übermensch?”

You know that word. Dostoyevsky expounded upon it in his _Crime and Punishment_ —and now you have a greater inkling as to why the book was given to Medic. “Yes.” Heavy seemed implacable as stone, a great mountain both on the battlefield and there in the infirmary.

“He has a history of extreme stress reactions. For years now, after…” Medic catches himself, clears his throat. “Let us say his past was not a happy one. He no longer has zhe hallucinations—the attacks, reliving the memories—but his nightmares can be insufferable. All this, _years later_.”

Years? _Heavy?_ If Heavy has nightmares even now, how can you possibly hope—

“You are not weak.” He frowns, turns the sleek pen between his fingers. “Experiencing fear is not weakness—you would not say that Heavy is weak, would you? _Nein_. Of course not. And so neither are you.” His attention returns to the notes. “Now—zhe relevant emotions, please.”

You release a long breath through your nose. It’s not an argument you can beat. “Fear,” you admit at last. You look at your hands. “Sometimes anger.”

Medic nods, scribbles readily on the pad. “We can use that.”

Your brow furrows. “Anger?” Last you checked, that emotion was a source of destruction. One that could well have ended up sending Medic through respawn.

“ _Jawohl_ , anger. In much the same way as earlier today; I trust you did not have any episodes between then and now, _ja?_ ”

“I didn’t.” You frown. What if… he could write you a treatment and send you packing right here, right now, could he not? Truly, this means nothing unless… “Medic, I need to make this work.”

He does not look up. “Of course.”

“No—” You press your fists against your knees. Your jaw tightens. “It’s not… not just this. It’s everything.”

Medic lifts his head. His brows arch. “What is it?”

Your face heats to the tips of your ears. “I—need to know. Now. If I won’t—if there’s no chance of staying.” You fixedly stare at your legs, folded tightly on the scratchy bedspread. You will not cry. “My mother—my family thinks—” You take a breath. “I won’t be able to go home right away. I need to find… I need another job before I go back. I can’t go home like this.”

His brow creases. “I never said anything about your leaving, _neue_. Zhis is to help you stay to the best of your health.” You lift your head to find him frowning into his notes.

“Now... racing heart, rapid palpitations, during these episodes?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Palpitations,” he replies shortly. “Fluttering, pounding rhythms of the heart. Stuttering or racing in the chest or throat. Difficulty—”

“I know what palpitations are. My mother’s had them.” Your arms fold tightly over your chest, bite your lip. Your mother’s been on your mind too much, and you’re getting irritated. Forge on—perhaps he won’t notice what you’d let slip… “What I don’t understand is—why—how can I be staying? I mean, keeping me until the week is up, sure, but after—the medical report—”

“Because there is no reason for you _not_ to stay.” Medic arches an irritated brow. “Unless, of course, you’ve suddenly decided that you cannot answer simple questions—”

“No, I—all right. Sorry.”

He nods, slowly. “ _Gut_. Now. Palpitations or racing heartbeat during these episodes?”

You frown. You can’t—you don’t recall anything like that at all. Just adrenaline, a fast beating, yes, but nothing that made you ill or particularly short of breath that you can recall. Nothing like your mother had described. “No… nothing like that.”

A slow grin, and Medic’s spectacles catch the low light from your window. His chuckle raises the hair on the back of your neck. “ _Perfekt!_ ”

Surely it was a far cry from _perfect_. Ok, fine, no physical symptoms is great, but you’re quite sure you’d tried to strangle your own medic yesterday and—

Your heart.

That’s it.

That’s fucking it.

You laugh, low in your throat, until the chuckle shakes your stomach and racks your shoulders. Ha! For a moment, you’d almost been under the impression that the doctor actually _cared!_ Of course not! No, this—this makes _sense_. Your damn bloody _heart_ is what he’s after!

Oddly enough, the thought actually makes you feel a bit better, in a backward sort of way.

You may not know much about the medic, but you do know that the man is devoted to his work. And you’re walking around with one of his experiments in your chest. And after the way he’s behaved since yesterday—it’s apparently a very important one.

He’s motivated to keep you around. _For science_.

“Something is funny, Specialist?”

You can’t seem to stifle your laughter. “Is there—a way—to help—” You draw a gasping breath and giggle anew. “—or are you fullofit?”

His regal look of indignity only makes you laugh harder. “Of course! I would not be here if it were not possible. “I have sedatives that can help you avoid nightmares, if necessary, and— _please_ control yourself, Specialist! Vhat is so amusing?”

You cover your mouth, draw deep breaths, try to smother your amusement. “Sorry—I’m sorry—just…” You heave one last, long breath. “ _I’m the experiment_. Or…” You recall the stolen intelligence. “A living briefcase, you might say. I just realized that you won’t tell Miss Pauling I’m not working out—you can’t. Because of my heart. I’ve been worried since yesterday and—”

Now the medic chuckles, but only briefly. “You were worried you’re unsuitable for this kind of work. I did not lie when I said this reaction is normal, _neue_. Didn’t you hear me when I said I’ve seen many soldiers go through such things? You are new to this environment; many of those here had already become accustomed to battlefield trauma before being hired—though not all. Had you been here a year ago, you would have seen half zhis team share your experience.” He flips the little notebook closed. “Now, as for my experiment—yes. You cannot overstate my investment in it at this time.” He shrugs. “But what of that? It is what I am here to do. Innovate medicine.”

What of it, indeed?

Medic tucks the notebook and pen away, studies you with an icy gaze. “Does it disturb you?”

You still.

Does it disturb you any more than IVs hanging from silver hooks like so many transparent nooses, dripping golden fluid in a dirge’s rhythm? More than skin, red and raw, so slow to heal that eyes prick more from frustration than pain? More than a head shaved clean and hidden under a scarf, whose cheerful colors seem only to mock that which it covers?

“No.” You draw your knees up under your chin, and meet the Medic’s even gaze. “As long as things are kept where they’re supposed to be, and that BLU son of a bitch stays on the other side of respawn, I have no problem with your investment.”

If this is what it takes, you’ll work with the doctor to overcome your… shell-shock and get back to proving your worth on the field first thing in the morning. You’ll be the best damn experiment this base has ever seen.

You’ll seal this fucking contract if it’s the last thing you do. For Mom.

Medic grins, teeth glinting in the low light like the bone-saw. “ _Ausgezeichnet_.”

And… maybe a little for you, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thatdamnokie's help, I should have chapter 18 back on schedule! My thanks again for your patience!


	18. Scarlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to thatdamnokie over on Tumblr, who's helping me beta while orchiids is out for a bit!
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning for: blood, gore, graphic violence, injury, and decapitation in this chapter.**

The final day of your trial dawns grey. It seems highly unusual, unsettling as you dress and arm yourself for the battle—and it would seem your teammates, as they shuffle silently through the halls, pour subdued cups of coffee, agree. You will the unease from your thoughts. Anything else, today of all days…

You will prevail. For your mother, for your family, for that glowing ember of pride in your heart as you stand in the locker room this morning. The desert sky can threaten as it likes, seem stout, strange, stormy—none of that will matter.

Medic catches your eye from across the room and gives what might be an encouraging nod. That smile is—genuine. But unsettling. You return it, as it’s the only one you’ve been offered so far this morning, and he strides over, bouncing on his heels.

“How would you like to pair with me today?”

You swear your heart stopped.

But your answer—“Yes!”—comes spilling off your tongue just the rain threatens to fall today: sudden, quick, and hard from the skies.

He chuckles, adjusting his spectacles, that wide grin only broadening. “ _Gut_. I think you will enjoy this, _neue_. Consider it… our first field-test, hm?” He winks.

His restrained excitement at the thought of testing makes the man reminiscent of some loping puppy, ready to go out and fetch. A loping puppy that could tear a man’s intestines out through his ribcage, playing a game of fetch that included spilling blood and shattering bone. But the image held well enough.

Heavy slaps you on the shoulder. “Über is… best feeling. English is too limited to explain… you will enjoy.”

The first time you’d ever witnessed an übercharge, it had been Heavy himself, leading a push behind enemy lines. He seemed to glow brighter than the desert sun, tall, eyes aflame with primal energy, flowing across the field with grace and strength, heralding doom in the rattle of his mini-gun. Bullets tore the air like the screams of their victims, whistling, whirring, blazing like a summer storm.

It was magnificent.

The thought that you might, some match or other, command such power thrills you to your very core. Perhaps, at the Medic’s side, it could even be today.

But you shouldn’t get ahead of yourself. The last thing you need is to be distracted enough to make a mistake.

[ _Go!_ ]

You hang back just a moment, to let him take the lead as he had during your hunt for the spy. But, he only readies his medigun with the shadow of a smile. “I’ll be right behind you, _neue_.”

With a nod, you surge forward on the heels of Soldier and Heavy—Scout and Pyro long gone. Out, into the grey, pale light, soil colored a dusky orange, the wood of the buildings tinged black—

And a warm glow washes over your body, a pleasant tingling on your skin that caresses muscle and bone, warming your cheeks, bringing a faintly metallic, rainy scent to your nose that might be from the weather or the medigun itself. Any aches left from the previous day are gone, forgotten in the slight breeze.

The taste of blood and storm are on your lips, and you swear your vision is sharper, the edges of each corridor more defined, the sweat already beading on the enemy’s foreheads clear as day across the field.

You feel healthier than you have been in your entire life. If you could bring this home…

No. Not right now. You—

“Overheal,” Medic explains, close behind. You cast a glance over your shoulder to see that bone-saw grin. “It takes your peak health and boosts it to absolute optimum. You will take more hits, fatigue more slowly—even if you aren’t constantly being healed.”

“It’s brilliant!”

He chuckles. “And it does not stop there. This is just the beginning!”

 _Boom-click_.

You’d almost forgotten the opposition. Fortunately, the BLU scout wasn’t a fan of subtlety, and like to fire before being completely in range—buckshot clattered harmlessly off your shield, not that it would have mattered at that distance, had you taken some. Not with the medigun’s energy flowing over you.

“Retaliate, Specialist.”

Oh, you do. You aim the Gyrojet and pull the trigger at the boy zigzagging his way across the soil, shotgun in hand. Miss. Miss. A wound opens along his arm.

He hisses. “That all ya got?” _Boom-clilck_. You crouch behind the shield, sure that Medic is well-covered behind you. Through the window, you see your team’s pyro slip around to flank the boy and close your eyes as they pump the flamethrower’s trigger.

You don’t look, but his screams intermingle with what you’re sure is raucous laughter, muffled behind a gas filter. You press on, the acrid scent of hair and stomach-turning burning flesh chasing you through the air.

The BLU heavy is on the point, paired with their demoman and specialist—the latter gives you a wicked grin to accompany the heavy’s leer… it seems he has not forgotten the alley yesterday. A chill creeps down your spine even as the warm scarlet waves soothe it away, heating your blood as you lead the charge, Medic keeping pace close behind,

Pyro breaking away into a flanking maneuver.

Chaos on the point as you halt, crouch—

“Medic, down!” But he’s already there at your shoulder, crouching behind the shield with you. You can feel his breath at your ear, steady, as the Kevlar rattles against your arm with the force of the mini-gun’s bullets. Through cracked Plexiglas, you can see the heavy does not flinch, even as your Scout approaches his six, throwing the demo off his focus long enough for Pyro to airblast him into the dust—an opening for Soldier to leap into the fray with his shotgun—lest the force of a rocket harm the REDs already fighting for the point. The heavy absorbs four shots from Scout’s scattergun before finally allowing a window in his cover-fire for you to rise again and get a clip’s worth of shots into the BLU specialist’s back. You’re close enough now to hear the rattling gasp as your doppelganger goes down, her coat rapidly turning maroon as she collapses over her shield.

The sight, uncanny, turns your stomach.

The heavy collapses but a moment after, choking on his own blood. Scout and Pyro give chase to the demo. You turn, sweeping the area for any new resistance, boots squeaking on the bloodied steel point.

“ _Spezialist--!_ ”

“ _Bonjour_.”

You whip around as quickly as you can, dominant shoulder burning, until Kevlar strikes a solid form. _Shit_. The spy hisses, stumbles, slides off the point’s sloped edge—

And Medic raises his bone-saw even as you aim the pistol, biting your tongue against the pain.

Blood glistens on the air. The doctor strikes again—and again—and again—for the spy’s part, he does not scream, only glares as best he is able with his head hanging only barely upon his shoulders. Slumped, at last, into the dirt, you can almost taste the copper on the air as Medic, blood in flecks across his coat, leans down to grin wickedly at the spy’s wild, bleary eyes.

“Did you think I’d forgotten your part in it?” he asks, and deals the killing blow with one smooth, gleaming arc through the air. The spy’s head rolls into the dull, orange dirt.

With a snap of his wrist, Medic flicks the blood off his blade, replaces the saw on his belt, and draws the medigun in another smooth movement. The effect on your shoulder is instant, pain soothed as crimson waves pour over the wound until the only trace left is the smallest tear in your coat.

“Shall we?” he asks with a genial grin.

You nod, furiously, and surge off toward the next point, following in Demo and Scout’s tracks. The BLU team, you find, has wasted no time in buckling down their defenses here. But you see Heavy standing his ground not twenty feet from the fortifications, and take up the place beside him. “Need some support?”

He spares the barest glance and grins, uttering a booming chuckle. “Always welcome! But do not want to steal _doktor_.”

The man in question scoffs. “You insult me, Heavy; I can support both of you easily!”

The hot, heady rush catches you after that, a buzz of both victory and scarlet energy, and you lose track of how many enemies you fell at Heavy’s side. An engineer too caught up in repairing his sentry. The demoman, taking a swipe at your pyro. Soldier, Scout, Specialist. Maroon running crimson into the orange soil and sand. You move on to the third point together as Scout sounds a triumphant whoop.

 _Crack_.

Draw Medic behind you with one arm. Hit the dirt, shield up, tense. Check for damage—

Heavy lies in the sand, a neat, bloody hole where the bullet pierced his skull. Shit.

“I’ve got that asshole!” Scout races off, dodging between buildings, and you rise from your knee to a low squat. Hold your breath. _One. Two. Three_.

“He should be combating the sniper now.” His voice is at your ear, breath stirring the hair on the back of your neck. “We can still hit them hard vithout Heavy.”

“All right.”

Pyro falls into step beside you as you charge into the open, shield high as the BLU soldier fires a rocket, and you brace for impact—

_Swush!_

You blink. A gust of air from Pyro’s flamethrower sent the projectile whirling back to the point, and the BLUs scatter. “Now!” You’re not sure who your shout is meant to reach.

Anyone listening perhaps. This is the best opening your team can hope for.

Charge. Boots pounding a harsh rhythm in the dull, orange dirt. Out of the corners of your vison, you see Pyro and Soldier fanning out on the right and left as the BLUs regain their bearings on the point, raise their weapons—

You fire three shots, and drop to the ground in your defensive position. Buckshot clatters off Kevlar. You can feel Medic close behind you, the medigun’s energy radiating along your skin. Catch sight of the enemy soldier through Plexiglas.

The heavy has switched to his shotgun, and ignores you for the sake of whipping the barrels toward Pyro, so you take the chance to sight down your Gyrojet and—

_Bang!_

Your arm recoils to your side as the rattle against your shield sets your teeth on edge. _Fuck_ , that was too close. The heavy. He’s turned his leering attention to Soldier, coming up on the right, and with both the BLU’s distracted once again…

“ _Specialist_.”

_Bang!_

Pyro’s body collapses, slides slowly off the silver point, and you ready your Gyrojet again—

“ _Spezialist_ ,” Medic hisses again, so quietly you almost can’t hear it. His syllables buzz with urgency. “Zhe spy. Using your shield as cover until he gets close. Ten feet.”

You squint through the Plexi. Yes—there’s something like a heat haze, and a stirring along the sandy orange soil. _Shit_.

_Boom!_

And down goes Soldier.

 _Double shit_.

And now the Pyro joins them in defense with those empty, black eyes.

“Fuck.” You fire three shots at the soldier, but they’ve hit nothing vital, the barest traces of blood showing on his coat.

Your shield shudders again as you struggle to reload. “Fuck.”

“Specialist, I need you to take some damage.”

You take the risk of whipping your head around to face him. “You want me to _what?_ ”

_Boom-crack!_

“I don’t have enough energy for an Uber-charge, and that’s the only way we’re making it out of this! The more energy the medigun expends in healing, the more heat energy it builds for the charge.”

_Boom!_

You draw a deep breath and drop the Gyrojet. Draw your Lancaster in both hands. Fuck. Now you’ve lost sight of the cloaked spy. What if Medic can’t heal you fast enough?

Then neither of you will be making it anywh—

“Just do it!”

Launch yourself to your feet, and crack! Your shield glances off a solid mass that materializes into—

Haze of silver, the glinting edge of a balisong pressing for your eyes—

You draw your left arm up, knock the spy’s arm down and the balisong plunges into the soft skin between shoulder and collarbone. You hiss as he yanks the blade back, a sick slide as your flesh struggles to hold the blade in place, squicking as it draws up and back, silver spilling blood across the air. But the pain is replaced with heat and needling twitches in the muscle, and you know the medigun has done its work.

“Again!” Medic urges.

You feign being a fraction too slow, and the spy opens a rift along your arm.

Heat, tingling along your skin again, and—

“I am fully charged!”

You feel it the instant it hits. Scarlet, crackling energy ripples along your skin, a burning flame in your blood, rushing to your head and it’s _red_ , spinning, spiraling, rushing as the whole world falls away into one, single, burning instant as you raise your shield, draw the Lancaster high in one hand, and for an instant, you wonder—can you withstand the recoil like this?

Squeeze the trigger, with two assured fingers, and cackle breathlessly as the recoil hums along your wrist like no more than a light patter of rain in the wind. It fells the damned

Soldier in a single shot.

Your grin bares your teeth as a free, low, wicked laugh rumbles up from your very bones, rising through your chest, warbling madly in the air—Oh! This… _this…!_ The air is bright, dancing before your very eyes, textures and color among the grey you don’t recognize, beautiful— _and the blood! Oh, the blood_ gleaming on the sand and your sleeves and in the terrified gazes of those BLU bastards, so bright, entrancing as a rose swaying in a sunset breeze…

The spy can’t cloak again, not yet, and so he runs—but he seems so slow; you witness every flex of his muscles, the footprint as he leaves it in the cracked soil—you fire. Blood flowers from his back, blooming against blue, and he falls so slow and graceful and you’re firing again as the scout scrambles to escape, as he fires desperate shot after shot bouncing with a ring like metal, high and sweet, chimes in the wind, ricocheting harmlessly off Kevlar and skin alike.

Your heart hums, thrums, joyous, calling: _this is what you were always meant to be_.

Chance a grin over your shoulder, and Medic—

Oh…

His skin crackles with that same singing spark, scarlet, and his eyes glitter like blood. Elegance, proud and tall as the tails of his coat crack behind him. Wicked genius in his grin _._

 _“Take zhe point_.”

You plant one boot on the spy’s bloody back and climb over him without care, reveling in the faint squelch of the sucking, gaping wound. Track burgundy blood over the gleaming silver and blue, and delight when the light fades to red.

[ _RED team has captured the point!_ ]

And the power holding your body high is gone in a rush, like an exhale, gone in a moment, fizzling out. You gasp as your body trembles, natural adrenaline racing to catch up, trying hard to regulate the wild beating of your heart. A hand clasps your elbow before you feel your knees start to give.

It’s Medic, spectacles catching the grey light, still grinning madly. “ _Ist gut?_ ”

“It’s… that was—” Your mind and tongue struggle. “— _amazing_.” You draw another unsteady breath. Words, words. They seems so pale in comparison. “It..”

“ _Aguzichnet, wunderbar_ ,” he suggests, moving his hand smoothly from your elbow to shoulder, fingers curling lightly into your coat.

“Is it—” Your voice catches momentarily and you draw yourself up a little, taking another deep breath as your heart settles. “Is it always so—”

He chuckles, low in his throat. “Every time, _Spezialist_. _Every_ time.”

Your grin is shaky, but genuine. What you wouldn’t give in this moment to experience that _every day_. “What now?”

“For now…” Medic’s hand drops from your shoulder, and he takes a step forward. “ _Komm_ —we can regroup with zhe others before—”

 _Crack_.

Your brain does not process the moment of impact, but it does command you to take cover, a reflexive crouch behind Kevlar, arm poised to shield your whole body. Your brain will not process the even as it happened, so you experience it in steps, backward, a short stint of recent memory, the only way you can:

Blood, first. Blood, hot on your face in spattered spray. It rolls down your cheeks, as Medic collapses into cracked dirt, head cradled in splintered bone and a cushion of bloody matter, glistening almost black in the low light filtered through stormclouds. The bullet had pierced his forehead, leaving a neat, dark hole graced by a single, curled lock of hair. His skull, of course, cracked, shattered, and in reverse, you piece it back together, play the instant over in your mind.

He didn’t even have the opportunity to look surprised.

A heavy piece of something slouches its way down your face among the blood and sweat. You don’t dare touch it, not even to wipe it away.

 _No_. How could you let this happen again? Bad enough the second day, and now, this—worse, because you _watched_ it, and there’s no immediate target to open fire upon.

And now you’re kneeling in the middle of the battlefield with a sniper just waiting for you to move. Your fingers curl tight inside the handle of your shield, leather glove creaking against the metal.

Well, you’ll give him what he asked for.

You rise.

 _Crack_.

Follow the invisible trajectory from sider-webbing cracks to a narrow shed’s window, boarded up, save for a three-inch space between planks. A perfect sniper’s perch. Digging your heels into the dirt, you sprint forward, head bowed behind the shield, and you bloody well hope that bastard can see you coming, and prepares. You don’t need to shoot him in the back of the head while he’s distracted. No, you want him to see your bloodstained face when you blast him apart.

A repeated mistake will _not_ cost you the contract.

The sniper can’t get off a second shot before you double around the neighboring shed, and you clear the first corner. The second. Throw open the fragile door.

Up, up the creaking steps. You care little for the sound. There is one thing and one thing only on your mind. There’s a single color in your head—it is red.

A living, breathing red.

You don’t slow when the sniper stands, snarling, at the top of the stairs, kukri drawn and ready. You don’t miss a step when he reaches over your shield, curved blade pointed at your skull. Draw the shield up, under his arm as you spring up the final step, throw your body into the Kevlar. The snap, satisfying, settles your breath as he falls, nose crunching, shatters. The blade clatters behind you as you wrestle the BLU, half-pinned by your shield and spitting blood as you rise to your knees, his long legs lashing out at anything he can reach. The kukri clatters and spins across the floor. You bring your shield up, force it down upon his head.

Blocked, barely, by spry arms as he pushes back. You tumble—over, over, over, over—

 _Crack, crack, crack, crack_ —

Gather your legs. Catch yourself halfway down the stairwell.

The sniper sneers, wipes blood from his mouth and displaced nose on the back of his hand, reaches back for his rifle.

You draw your Lancaster, and with two hands, forego your cover.

_Bang!_

He drops. Slowly, shaking stiff limbs, rolling your neck, you climb. His body trembles.

_Bang!_

Skull fragments, splinters, explodes. Dead.

You spit on his corpse.


	19. Oppositional Parallelism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The holidays were quite a lot busier than expected... so without further delay, chapter nineteen!
> 
> Warning for: gore, death, drugs, and medical unpleasantness

[ _You failed!_ ]

The words echo across the field, tangible and hot and you gnash your teeth against your double’s sickly-sweet smile. “Good luck on your evaluation,” she says. It turns your stomach to think of that false kindness spread upon your own features. You’ve never looked that way, have you? “Maybe I’ll see someone with better mettle next week.”

You stare straight down the barrel of her pistol. “Or I’ve doomed us both. A class on each side or not at all, right?”

There’s little satisfaction in the way rage overtakes those familiar features before she squeezes the trigger.

She dispatches you with a single shot.

Your fingers curl against concrete as you push yourself upright in spawn, drawing blood from the inside of your cheek. _Failed_. Even your best was not enough. There are no tears pricking at your eyes; the thought only makes you cold, an emptiness settling in your chest as your mouth fills with an arid, metallic taste.

Both Sniper and Scout tumble out of respawn behind you. Neither will look at you, and your fingers stray to the Lancaster on your thigh. Comforting, heavy, cold.

“Ah! _Spezialist!_ ” Medic bounces in on the balls of his feet, Heavy not far behind. He claps your shoulder, smears a splatter of blood across his cheek with the other sleeve. “Marvelous work today. Now, before dinner, I’d very much like to check over the—”

You wet your lips. Furrow your brow as the man chatters on, nearly vibrating with excitement. “We lost,” you manage.

“Hm?” He arches a brow. “Oh! That’s such a small matter, now! We’ll win it all back come Monday. No one ever _really_ gains an edge. Now—”

“WE LOST THE DAY, MAGGOTS!”

Scout groans, head thumping against the door of his locker. “Here we go.”

“I EXPECT TO SEE EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU RUNNING THOSE COURSES STARTING TONIGHT, YOU SORRY SARDINES!” Soldier tramps about before finding your little corner of the room, and one thick finger levels directly with your nose. “ESPECIALLY YOU, ENSIGN GREENIE.”  
You open your mouth to reply, to agree—after all, what else is there to do besides pack; you’ve royally fucked up.

But: “Excuse me, _Herr_ Soldier.” Medic fixes the man in an amiable gaze over his spectacles. But something in the arch of his brows, the quirk of his mouth is… undeniably chilling. “Am I mistaken, or did the Specialist double your kill-count today?”

“THAT DOES NOT EXCUSE—”

“What about this? I will personally see to zhe Specialist’s study of maps and our usual tactics, hm? Since the problem, clearly, has nothing to do with her physical prowess.”

“THAT MAY SOUND REASONABLE, BUT—”

“Soldier, why don’t you an’ I go over the plans in the boardroom now?” You hadn’t even seen Engineer come in. “We’ll bring everybody up to speed later, when they’re really payin’ attention.”

Soldier, much to your surprise, seems to consider this. “All right,” he mutters amenably. Then: “PREPARE YOURSELVES, MAGGOTS. WE MEET FOR DINNER AT 1800 TO TALK STRATEGY.”

He and Engineer leave, the latter throwing a thumbs-up your way.

“Thank freakin’ God,” mutters Scout, and slams his locker shut. “Gonna get a shower in freakin’ peace.”

“Well—” Medic’s energy is back immediately, eyes alight. He rocks on his heels. “—I’ll prepare the infirmary and you can meet me zhere once you’ve taken care of your gear. Be prompt! Or I’ll come looking for you, and the procedure vill cut into dinner again.” He barely waits for affirmation before flouncing out of the locker room, not bothering to store the syringe gun or bonesaw beside his sullen teammates.

You stand there a few moments, trying to reconcile an embarrassing loss with the doctor’s absolute cheer.

Scout appears beside you. “You uh—got a surgery scheduled with the doc?”

“Something like that.” You purse your lips, swallow. “I have no idea what it is.”

He nods. “That makes sense.”

Your brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Never seen him go outta his way with Soldier like that for somebody else. Makes sense if he did it for a surgery.” The boy shudders and pats your shoulder. “Good luck with that!”

Heavy turns from his locker, shakes his head. “Do not listen to Scout. Is not so bad.”

The boy snorts. “Says Mr. Indestructible over there.”

“Not indestructible. Just sturdy.” Heavy throws you a conspiratorial grin, and you chuckle.

Scout casts a glance between you. “Now, hey—wait a minute! You tryin’ ta suggest somethin’?”

Heavy shrugs, meeting your eye again with amusement before turning to his locker. “Some are more sturdy than others.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey!” Scout jerks a thumb at his chest. “I’m as sturdy as they come, alright?”

But the Russian is already making his silent way toward the door.

“No, hey! C’mon!” The boy dashes through the locker room, leaving you standing over one of the benches as he bounds toward the hall. “No _way_ Spesh is sturdier than me! She’s got a shield, and that’s cheatin’—c’mon, Heavy! _Whatdaya mean?_ ”

You chuckle as the indignant shouts fade into the hall, and roll your shoulders, stretch your neck to either side. The shield and Gyrojet are heavy on your belt, the uniform coat clinging weightily along your arms. Best to get all your gear sorted and… get to the med-bay.

A sinking feeling settles in your stomach as you move through the empty halls. The others are already hitting the showers or—you suppose—the board-room. Pyro has already disappeared to their quarters. You don’t recall seeing Spy at all since the match ended, but that is hardly unusual. So, you try to find comfort in silence but only end up catching your lip between your teeth as the quicksand swallowing your stomach threatens to rise up and enfold your mind, too.

 _Failed_.

It’s just never enough. Why isn’t it ever _okay?_ Things don’t have to be _good_ ; you’re beyond that now. You just want them to be _fine_. Just… decent.

You need to call your mother.

You need to know if _she_ is okay.

With a constricted huff, you dump your belt—shield, Gyrojet, and all—onto the wrinkled bedspread. You strip off your gloves and add them to the pile, then your thigh-holster with the Lancaster, and finally peel the coat from your shoulders, leaving you standing in tall boots, trousers, and a white, cotton undershirt, feeling like you should be sweat-soaked—but there’s only the electric clean feeling of respawn still clinging to your skin.

Automatically, you reach into the wardrobe for a button-down, but stop halfway, turning the scarlet fabric over in your hands. Does it matter? The medic will probably just have you take it off anyway to check your…

You shudder, and swallow the sudden lump in your throat.

No use thinking about it now.

You pull the shirt on, one arm at a time, but don’t bother buttoning, and hurry into the hall before you have the opportunity to change your mind. Why did you agree to this again?

Never mind. You know why. Fold your arms tightly across your chest, wrinkle the fresh-pressed shirt, and grit your teeth. _Step, step, step_ down the empty halls. Pass Demo, just out of the shower, drops of water clinging to tightly shorn curls, running down his brow. He grins, and you wave absently as he passes, filthy uniform balled under one arm.

He was wearing nothing but a towel.

You don’t have the capacity to be even retroactively embarrassed. You don’t turn around. You just press on, pushing your way through swinging doors into the infirmary.

“Ah! There you are! I was afraid I vould have to come find you. Please--sit up on zhe gurney and we’ll get started!” You swear his voice climbs an octave in excitement as he buzzes over to the sink to wash his and yank another pair of those red gloves up his elbows.

You try to ease the tight fist of your stomach as you sit upon the cold table, scratchy sheets crackling.

“Today vas most certainly a success!” You look up and he’s _right fucking there_ , grabbing a thermometer from the tray beside him. “Open, bitte.” You do, letting him tuck the instrument under your tongue. “Close.”

You do. The glass is cold.

Not as cold as it will be when he decides to use the scalpel. You try not to grit your teeth. Medic would likely not appreciate mercury all over his workspace.

“Everything worked _beautifully, Spezialist!_ Zhe rate of decay decreased by oh--at least a quarter! With some tinkering, I might be able to increase the duration of _die uber_ by half! What do you think of zhat? Ah, _herrliche!_ We’ll just check the integrity of the hardware, ascertain zhere are no side-effects, though respawn does impact zhe data more than I would like--”

You did, in fact, think it was quite amazing, not that Medic so much as took a breath long enough for you to interject your response. But it would be far more wonderful if this did not involve opening up your chest and poking around the organs again. Not that this would make Medic change his mind. So, it really makes no difference that he has not stopped his excited tangent since you arrived.

“--so, of course, my ultimate goal is a heart that won’t suffer wear during uber. I made a concession with crafting a half-artificial organ. More opportunity for wear and tear with non-organic parts--pah! But! You appear to suffer no ill effect--” He takes the thermometer from your lips and holds it to the fluorescents. “Hrm. A little low, but zhat is normal, _nicht?_ ”

You nod. “ _Gut_.” He shines a pen-light over your eyes without warning. “Don’t squint, please.” You do your best, hands folded tight together on your lap. “ _Gut_ ,” he says again. Next are your ears. And then cold, thick rubber at your neck.

You flinch with a hiss.

“Agh! Your lymph nodes,” Medic explains shortly, and strips the gloves off his hands, tosses them aside on the tray with a clink of disturbed instruments. “I’ll be checking your lymph nodes; be still, _bitte_.”

You squeeze your eyes shit, jaw tight. He’d completely forgotten about fair warning. Your stomach turns, and you brace yourself.

Cold fingers on your skin, gentle.

You hope he doesn’t _forget_ when it comes time for something major. “What are you going to do?”

Expert fingertips press along the contours of your neck, massaging into tissue. You swallow, and feel your skin shift under his cool hands. “I am checking your lymph nodes for signs of infection,” he grumbles.

“I know. What _will_ you be doing?” You add “please” as an afterthought.

“Oh—I’ll be looking at your heart to check for damage.” His fingers leave your neck, and you open your eyes to see Medic snapping the gloves back on. “Visual check, today—I don’t want to tamper vith zhe data. I’ll be checking structural integrity, overall health, swelling, buildup of fluids in zhe chest cavity.”

“Oh.”

Well, that’s better than poking and prodding, isn’t it?”

“Now, please lay back und I’ll begin zhe procedure—I find no sign of outward complications.”

Marginally.

You have to uncurl your fingers to do so, and you wince when the blood returns to a normal flow through stiff joints. You push yourself back and pull the unbuttoned shirt from your shoulders. “Medic?”

He barely turns his attention from the sharp implements spread across the tray. “Hm?”

“Should I be wearing a gown?”

A crease forms between his brows. “Should you… Oh! _Ja_ , I suppose.” He bends over at one of the cabinets and tosses you the red-stringed cotton monstrosity, immediately digging through a drawer as soon as the garment reaches your hands.

You take the opportunity to remove your undershirt and bra and toss it all in the direction of a chair near the door. They mostly make it, and you pull the gown over your shoulders and lie back, closing the front but not tying it.

Medic holds a syringe to the light, pulling a colorless liquid from a stoppered bottle through the needle.

You feel a bit sick.

“Just zhe same as before. I’ll numb zhe area, make zhe incision, _und_ make an assessment.” He sets the bottle back in the cabinet, and flicks the syringe gently before bringing it to the table. “Of course, eventually, we’ll do it vithout drugs.”

“What?”

Medic’s brow arches. “Your pain tolerance is high, and zhe medigun, as soon as it won’t interfere with zhe data, will do fine. Morphine doesn’t grow on trees, after all!”

Your chest is tight. Your breath comes in the slightest gasps. “But—we get supplies every month, don’t we?”

He tucks the gowns edges to the side, probably not unlike the way he would tuck your skin in just a few moments to expose— “Ja, but my budget goes elsewhere.”

His eyes linger on your breastbone, and one gloved finger pokes the thin scar that bisects your chest. “Zhat healed very nicely.”

Self-consciousness mingles with anxiety, and you’re quite sure you’re going to be sick.

And then he’s sterilized the skin and stabbed the needle in before you can blink. You dig your fingers into the edges of the gurney to keep yourself from moving. The metal cuts under your knuckles as the liquid seeps, hot, under your skin. If you had something, anything to distract as the needle pulls out of your flesh with a pinch—

“Where—” your voice cracks. You try again: “Where’s—ah—Archimedes?”

“Hm? Oh! Archimedes is usually resting there by the window in the afternoon—they’re all eating, but—a moment—”

You follow the click of his boots with your ears and open your yes slowly to the fluorescents, but don’t move. He’s somewhere there above your head, aaaaaaaa…

Aaaand there’s the flood of warmth at the base of your skill, crawling under your skin, lighting up your veins, a cold contrast against heated skin. “—yes, you’ve napped most of zhe day, haven’t you? But, _Neue_ asked, _und_ you wouldn’t vant to disappoint, would you?” Somewhere through the fog, you wonder if he always addresses his doves that way. “No, no, I’ll let you out _after_ , Lister—just Archimedes for now.”

A slow smile starts on your lips, even as your stomach clenches.

Medic, with a click of his boots on the tile is above you again, Archimedes nestled between his palms. He lifts one and lets the dove free. It hops down onto your stomach with a soft flutter. “Better?”

Your fingers, stiff, uncurl from the gurney’s edge. You open your mouth, but your tongue feels slow. Instead, you nod, and the room drags behind your gaze. You stop that immediately. “Thank you,” you manage.

“ _Gut, gut_. Here, Archimedes, make up your mind! I can’t have you at zhe incision site!”

Indeed, the dove has hopped along to the sterile area, but you can’t feel a thing.

“Archimedes!” With a huff, Medic gently sweeps the dove to nestle in the gown by your shoulder. “Fine?” But you’re not sure if he’s asking you or the bird.

He saves you the trouble by drawing up the larger syringe, with its thick, menacing needle. You close your eyes against it.

“ _Und_ zhe second.” There’s some kind of sensation near your chest, but it’s not _pain_ , exactly.

You feel Archimedes stir at your side, tucking himself closer and making a nest of the open gown. It brings warmth to your chest. Well—so do the drugs, you suppose, but that’s another matter entirely. You do your best to uncurl cramped fingers again and be… somewhat relaxed.

Dinner. You could have dinner soon. That would be nice.

“I understand you performed a revenge kill on zhe sniper.”

Oh. Even through your fogged mind, there’s no mistake. You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth, and bite perhaps a little too hard in the soft, red haze behind your eyelids. “Yeah.” Did he really have to bring that up _now_ , fragments of bone splitting, splintering, blood raining through the perch, wood drinking it up like--

“I wish I’d seen how you performed after zhe uber.”

Horrifyingly.

“Fine.”

“Hm.” His thoughtful hum seems distant. “No strain? No extra energy? Changes in heart-rate or breathing?”

“Don’t think so.” Your chest is starting to feel heavy.

“Hm. Perhaps next time I’ll be there. Now--do not speak please--zhe same as before.”

You don’t mind that in the least. You’re pleasantly light-headed, and would rather not shatter the calm. Archimedes makes a little sound before changing positions again, tickling the skin of your shoulder.

“My concern is zhat there tend to be a variety of reactions after experiencing invincibility. Unnecessary risk-taking is one.”

You should probably feel admonished. You just feel a little floaty.

“But my main concern is physiological at zhe moment. So far, all your tissue looks marvellous! A little bruising here on zhe surface near your clavicle, but when we fix you up with zhe medi-gun, that will be _gut_ as new! Nothing to worry about. Now, your--”

One, two, three, four beats of your heart.

Your brow furrows. You can’t hear him at all. There’s only the hum of the overhead fluorescents, the quiet whir of the medigun on standby.

You open your eyes this time.

He is still there, tall and decorated with little smears of blood along his sleeves, his lapels. As you watch, Medic raises a hand slowly to his chin, draws his fingers slowly along his jaw, painting his skin a shadowed red. He reaches his ear and tugs the spectacles up higher so they no longer catch the light.

His gaze is intent, softer than you’ve ever seen it, fixated somewhere below your neck, burning still, but lost its blade’s edge. His lips are parted, as though he had something more to say, and found the words suddenly gone.

“Medic?”

“ _Spezialist_ , please!”

If your chest weren’t so heavy, you might have twitched at the sudden bark. And there--the chilly, sharp edge to his gaze again.

“Do not speak. I’m going to… if I’d--well.” The blood on his jaw catches the light. “Your heart looks better than I expected.” He grows quiet again, and you don’t close your eyes. His gaze turns to your open chest again, below where you’ll let yourself peek. “The desire of my double to bring you back to life before examining your heart is not lost on me.”

There’s a great weight constricting your breath.

“Truly,” he says, quiet, and you strain your ears. “This is the _only_ way to see it.”


	20. The Sky is Blue, the Grass is Green, Dinners are Awkward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, a month is terrible, but---yeah I wanted to be done with this chapter before that. Things happened in it that I did not expect, and... well... here we are. You'll see what I mean.
> 
> Thanks to Kilgamesh on tumblr for helping me sort through some things and acting as my beta this time! 
> 
> **Warning for: alcohol, discussion of drugs, death, and possibly dissociation**

After that surgery, you just wanted as little awkwardness as possible to accompany your dinner.

The table was piled high with hamburger fixings, a steamy platter in the middle of the table, and you cast your eyes over the chairs without really seeing. Heavy is here, and Scout, but the rest seems… out of focus. Your stomach turns a little, despite the fact that any painkillers would be long out of your system after being patched up with the medigun, and you decide to be thankful that Medic chose to stay behind to complete his notes on the procedure. There isn’t much more prodding you can stomach today. You slide into your seat beside Scout, clearly putting the finishing touches on his plate.

“So,” he says, offhand, “magical freakin’ experience or what?”

Gods, you hope the embarrassment doesn’t show on your face. “Or what,” you grunt, helping yourself to the first platter you can see. Green beans. The heavy heat swimming through your blood stretching out the seconds like a _click, click, click_ , hands on a clock under fluorescents, glinting on glass, peering into your chest with something like _admiration_ , and--

“Hey—ya all right there?”

A chill creeps along your spine, and you snap your eyes shut, taking your seat properly. “Sorry.” You nearly drop the tongs. “I’m--uh--the morphine is just wearing off, I think.”  
Heavy, at the opposite end of the table, does brilliantly at covering his incredulity.

Scout covers his frown with a turn of mock-annoyance. “ _Morphine?_ The doc uses diddly sh---crap on me!”

You vividly recall the boy having no problems saying ‘shit’ (and worse) multiple times on the field, but then, you realize: gentlemen don’t swear at the table. He wasn’t joking about the way his “ma” raised him. The thought brings the whisper of a smile to your lips. “He said he was going to stop using it once having the medigun on all the time won’t ‘interfere with the data’.”

Scout snorts. “Sure.” He digs into the burger on his plate. “Doc’s pretty greedy with those meds. Pretty sure he hadn’t opened the cabinet in a year before you got here. Not sure what he’s savin’ ‘em for.”

“Emergencies,” suggests Spy dryly. “Perhaps one day we won’t be able to rely on miracles.” He pinches an unlit cigarette between gloved fingers.

“You wishin’ ill on the equipment, there, Spy?” asks Engineer, amusement playing on his lips.

“ _Non_. Merely expressing a desire for appropriate preparation in a worst-case-scenario.”

“Engie and the doc test everything _every day_ ,” scoffs Scout. “You think they’d let us shoot at each other if nothin’ worked?”

You can see the arch of Spy’s brow in the shift of his balaclava. “Are you certain you wish to put blind trust in things you do not understand?”

A shiver passes over your skin, like the smoke that might curl from his cigarette. You wonder if he knows something you don’t. But--of course he does. That’s his job, after all.

You push the beans around your plate.

“Speakin’ of--” Scout gives you a sidelong glance before returning to his food. “--do ya trust him?”

There is a strange spike of adrenaline that rushes through your fingers, triggering an involuntary tremble, and you wonder if, perhaps, the morphine had not completely worn off after all. “Who?” you ask, though there is no doubt.

“Medic.”

You wet your lips, and know without looking that bloody well _everyone_ is listening. “He’s the doctor,” you reply slowly, and if any of them knew your history, they would know this was a piss-poor answer and an even poorer lie.

Scout fixes you under his gaze this time, brow creased. He has never looked this serious before. “He doesn’t have a license anymore, ya know.” But the boy’s tone is light and you have no idea what to make of this.

The breath stops in your chest. This is a question you’ve never had to ask yourself.

_What’s better: a doctor with his papers and a sheaf of death certificates, or a man with knowledge and blood?_

The only answer you have right now is “ _What the fuck_.”

Scout’s lips are a serious crease. “Ya didn’t know.”

Engineer raises a hand. “Now—now hang on--y’all’ve gotta understand, he did have one...”

“He don’t now.” Scout shrugs.

Your mind flicks back to the plaque on Medic’s office door; it held only his title. No MD. No PhD. Nothing.

“An’ ye think the rest of us are right an’ proper?” Demo snaps over his bottle.

You can’t help but flinch a little at that, though Scout seems unmoved. “She’s got a right ta know! I get it; we’re mercenaries or whatevah, but when somebody’s shootin’ you in the back one minute and pokin’ around your insides the next--”

“ _What?_ ”

You’re not sure who said it. It’s like you heard the question from a distance, through the muffled, heavy silence that followed.

Scout stares fixedly at his plate. He had not meant to give away that much information. Spy and Heavy are staring hard at the boy. The others won’t look at you. Your mouth is dry, hands fisted in your lap.

“ _What are you talking about, private?_ ” Soldier, you realize, demands again. “ _Are you accusing a fellow of treason?_ ”

“Yes, Scout.” Seven heads whip around to the double-doors. Medic stands there, arms folded neatly across his chest, pristine again even after surgery. “Do finish. I’m quite anxious to hear the full accusation before we begin throwing one another under zhe table, hm?”

Scout firmly keeps his eyes on his lap, and you just want to slide out of your chair and melt into the floor. “You shot her,” he says, low. “Yesterday. You coulda fixed her.”

Your brow furrows, and you can’t look at any of them. Yesterday, you’d lost half your hand on the field and would have been dead useless. You should have just charged off the way you had planned. You never should have let Scout and Heavy take you to Medic. It was a waste of time then, and it’s a waste of energy now. _You’re_ the problem here, and your throat tightens.

But Medic’s lip just curls in disgust. “Could I? I told you then, _und_ I will tell you now: _zhe medigun cannot regrow limbs!_ Would you have preferred that I let her bleed out?”

“You coulda fixed that.” The boy’s fingers curl in his lap, and you bite your lip. _You’re_ the problem. Miss Pauling can send you away tomorrow little more cause than _this_ , and she would be right. Perhaps you should go. This argument is worth nothing.

Medic barks a short, humorless laugh. “And then what? Let her run around the battlefield without fingers to fire her weapon? Let her get torn to shreds vithout any means of defense? Her death was completely painless--”

_Crack!_ Scout strikes the table with his hand, hard. “BUT DIDJA HAVE TO USE **MY** GUN?” The choked sob makes your blood run cold, and you can taste the blood that trickles where your teeth had pierced skin.

Engineer is on his feet in an instant, brows knitted together, leering, even as he hustles to Scout’s side, clasping his shoulder. “The hell have you done, Medic?”

But the doctor is quite unmoved. “It was the most efficient, painless method available to me. Zhe specialist’s death was instant; ask her.” Cold eyes peer over his spectacles, and your blood chills further under his gaze.

You find strength in your next breath, and clasp Scout’s forearm. The boy is stifling tears, turning whatever pain had been in his voice into a snarl. “Scout,” you say, and your voice wavers. “Scout I’m sorry. It’s all right, really. I didn’t even know what happened until I was in respawn.” You don’t understand. You squeeze his arm gently, and keep talking. “I didn’t feel it. I wasn’t even sick after.” Your brother would never let you hug him. Not even in the hospital. Not even when he finally broke down in tears when your mother was at worst. You seize Scout’s shoulders, try to make him look at you. “It’s all right.”

He shakes his head furiously, all traces of the tears that had been shining in his eyes gone. “No. No it’s not,” he hisses. “Do you have any idea what I’ve done with that pistol? Do ya?”

“Scout—” Engineer tries to keep a hold on him, but to no avail; he shakes off your hand and the Texan’s.

Scout pushes through to where Medic still stands, arms crossed neatly, but—In an instant—Spy is there, placing a firm hand in the middle of the boy’s chest. “ _Don’t_ ,” he says, so quietly that you almost cannot hear.

He tries to sidestep, but Spy is there, smoothly mirroring his movements. “ _He’s a fuckin’ bastard!_ ” Scout protests.

“ _Oui_ ,” Spy agrees, grimly. “But would your mother want you like this?”

Like a blow to the stomach. “D--don’t you talk about my ma,” he says through gritted teeth.

But spy’s eyes are impassive. “Well?”

“No.”

This time, when Scout tries to storm past, Spy lets him, and the boy disappears through the doors without a backward glance at the doctor.

There is a wretched, sinking feeling in your chest.

“Well, gentlemen,” says Spy. He fixes you in his gaze. “ _Mademoiselle_.” You find you can’t move in any direction, only stand like you’re sinking into the floor. “I believe we may continue this later.”

In the general murmur of assent that follows, you almost miss a muttered: “Walk with me,” as Spy passes the doctor, who nods and joins his departure.

“Solly,” says Engineer, “why don’t you an’ I get this cleaned up? Put some leftovers in the fridge.”

“Acknowledged!”

This jolts you out of your place rooted to the tiles. “Let me!” You blurt.

Engie shakes his head. “Nah, darlin’, we can take care of it. You kin take a plate with ya if ya like—”

“Please.” This is easy; it comes spilling off your lips without prompting. “I insist. You all go on ahead.”

The man doesn’t like it, but the set of his jaw is resigned. A shallow puff of breath leaves his lips. “All right. If ya need anything, you tell us, ya hear?”

“I will.”

You won’t.

But as the mercenaries hesitantly depart, you begin clearing plates with a set fury. Heavy might have touched your shoulder on his way past, but you’re unsure; your mind winds down and down until there’s only the sink, a cupboard of Tupperware, a stack of filthy dishes, and the tiles on the floor.

On your last trip to the table, a bottle slides across the scarred wood to stop just short of your plate. The label, in flowing script: “Ballantine’s,” and below: “Liqueur Blended Scotch Whiskey.” Established 1837, evidently.

You do like scotch.

You lift hazy eyes to Demo, who leans heavily against the back of his chair. For a moment, you’re afraid he’s been there the entire time. But--he must have left to fetch...

“What’s this?” you ask.

“After today, ye need it more’n I do lass. I prefer to think of it as a toast to the next year gettin’ tae know you.”

_Rather than a sloshed goodbye_ , remains unsaid.

Your brow furrows. A gift? You frown. “Demoman, I’ve… really made a mess of things. I can’t.”

But he shakes his dark head, cocking a brow over his eyepatch. “Things were always gonna change. Doesn’ matter if it was you or some other poor bastard lined up tae join the team.” He shrugs. “It isn’t yer fault.” He gestures with his own bottle in hand. “Take it, lass. There’s a fight twice a week as it is, whether you’re here or not.” He winks in an exaggerated fashion with his good eye. “Trust me.”

With a something like a smile crookedly lifting your lips—though you cannot feel it reach your eyes—you crack the bottle. “Thank you.” And take a sip from the mouth. It burns, but it burns _good_ and you let yourself cough softly, tears springing to your eyes over the caramel-dark, smoky flavor.

Demo grins. “To th’ battles,” he proposes, and clinks his unlabelled brew against yours. “On and off the field.”

The second sip is smoother, and, though it cannot melt the chill lodged in the pit of your stomach, it is a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we will be addressing what happened here. But--for some reason this chapter feels like a bit of a risk--if you have any feedback, I would certainly appreciate hearing it.


	21. Sparks and the Rising Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What?? Two within a week?? UNHEARD OF. Thanks again to kilgamesh over on Tumblr for betaing this one. 
> 
> WARNING for: brief delirium, blood, gore in this chapter

Dinner left you with no appetite, and you had collapsed onto your bed, The Count of Monte Cristo in hand before you even realized you reached for it. Three hours of tossing and turning on your creaking box-spring just to reach chapter twenty-six.

 _“Man,”_ says the Count as you read, _“is a very ugly creature when you examine him closely.”_

And you find you can read no more. You press the book on the nightstand beside your alarm clock with a tight frown.

Midnight.

You cast your eyes about the room, pushing the memory of Scout’s anguished bark far from your mind, until the little bottle of vitamins on top of the wardrobe catches your gaze. Might as well find some water before you forget. You roll off the bed and land on stockinged feet with a soft _thump_. No use trying to sleep in any case.

You throw on a pair of trousers and shirt, slip on your Keds, and creep into the hall. All daytime visions and worries and deaths and respawns aside, at least you’re not having nightmares.

You find the nearest piece of wood and softly knock on it as you pass.

The hall seems less menacing tonight, despite the wan glow of the emergency lamps. As you pass the medical wing, your stomach turns. You didn’t bother putting any stipulations on your little arrangement with the doctor. Foolish. Desperate. To have your organs bare to the air yet again—running ribbons, ravenous fingers spilling speckled stains and—

You bite your tongue, dig your nails into your palms, and the pain jolts you awake at the double-doors to the kitchen. Medic was exuberant, but not completely inconsiderate this afternoon. Well. Not until dinner.

A little probing in the refrigerator turns up a bottle of water. You wonder, would Medic try to push the boundaries? How long before you were more _experiment_ than human? Once your heart— _the_ heart; could it really be considered yours anymore?—worked to the doctor’s satisfaction, would he start on your liver next? Your stomach?

Your brain?

Spider-webbing cracks in Plexiglass blur the blood, _crack, crack, crack_ the blade skitters, spins across creaking floorboards skull splits splinters splatters sticky slouching down your cheek--

 _Fuck_. You push through the double-doors to the training yard and gulp down a cold breath of night air, watch exhale mingle with the desert night in a white puff that sails out under the moonlit sky. Your hands grip the chilled bottle tight, trying to calm the trembling quake spreading through them. _Shit_. You squeeze your eyes shut.

You have no recollection of running for the doors.

With a slow, shuddering breath, you open your eyes again and try to turn your mind away. You turn your gaze to the night sky.

Stars speckle the heavens, more than you could count in a lifetime, so many more than you’ve seen in the last couple years, living close to the city. Out here, the stars twine together in silver rivers across the blue-black, velvet night.

The door clicks shut behind you at last as you stare, there on the concrete steps. Night smells of sand and silence—and just beneath, the crisp, spicy scent of a fire. Your brow furrows. You’d been under the impression that the base’s heat was gas-burning, not wood (and God rest your souls if BLU ever decided to take advantage of the former).

Your Keds make no sound on the cracked ground as you step off the stairs. You filter out the soft, swinging strains of a radio once again through someone’s open window to follow the distant crackle of flame. You creep around the building until shadows fall and flicker across orange sand. Your eyes follow them to a roaring bonfire, twice the size of Pyro who sits, elbows on suited knees, cradling their masked face between their hands, nearly close enough to catch fire themselves. The sound of a guitar, idly echoing over the roar of the flames reaches your ears, and you squint past the bonfire to see the dim silhouette of either Engineer or Soldier.

Not sure if they see you, you approach slowly, the roar of the flames calming your nerves. The snap of dry wood echoes on aluminum walls behind you. Pyro’s head turns when you’re only a stone’s throw away, and the wave, a welcoming arc that points to the sand halfway between them, and—the twang of the guitar stops, and the figure leans over the arm of his chair until the orange light reaches his features. It’s Engineer, and he raises an arm in welcome, too.

“C’mon, have a seat! Wish I’d brought out another chair, but we didn’t think anybody else’d be up.”

It’s after midnight, a silver half-moon hanging in the black sky among a river of stars, a fire higher than you are tall warming your face and your hands, radiating against the cold, night air. In the middle of a desert in Arizona. With a mercenary in a fire-retardant suit that speaks not one comprehensible word, and another playing his guitar like they aren’t being paid to wake up in the morning and kill for ten hours out of the day.

And you’re a mercenary, too, aren’t you? The only difference is you’ve left your pistol under your pillow and raced outside like a madwoman as soon as your thoughts turned sour.

“You can take mah chair if ya like,” Engineer offers, moving to set his guitar aside but you shake your head as you draw closer.

“Don’t worry about it! I don’t mind sitting on the ground.” You sink carefully onto the sand about halfway between your team-mates. The sand is cold under your palms.

“Can’t sleep, either?” you ask.

Pyro shrugs. “Mrph mr brmr.” And with their hands, they spell: T-H-I-S—I-S—B-E-T-T-E-R.

“I like comin’ out a couple times a week; it helps me shake off the losses. I don’t know how often Py does this, but I certainly don’t notice much wood lyin’ around.”

You look to them, but Pyro only shrugs.

“Got a couple beers here—want one?”

You let your eyes wander to the tall, flickering flames, dancing against a dark sky. A prod at your arm, and you return your attention to Pyro.

W-H-A-T’S—W-R-O-N-G?

You take a sharp, smoke-laced breath. How much would it be wise to confess? After today… “Do—” You hesitate. “Do you know what Scout meant at dinner?”

The strumming twangs to a halt. You can practically hear your team-mates stiffen as they exchange a look over the flames, the red tendrils flickering in the void of Pyro’s mask.

You open your mouth to take it back when Engineer clears his throat.

“Look, darlin’.” He frowns, brow furrowed under the goggles pressed up over his forehead. “It’s not my business to disclose what exactly happened there, but what I will tell ya is that them dog tags ain’t just for show.”

Your mouth runs a little dry at that. You never quite made it far enough for your tags to mater.

Engineer’s hands tap nervously along his guitar. “Scout served in ‘Nam before this job.”

A shiver creeps down your spine at that; your stomach turns, and you almost wish Engie had not told you. All reports coming out of Vietnam were… horrible. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “Don’t be. Not fer askin’.” The man sighs, fixing a distant gaze on the fire. “But that’s all I’m gonna say about it. He’ll tell ya if he wants to.”

You nod. Of course. You would not even think of asking for more.

After a while, Engineer starts up his strumming again, chords that reach down to your bones and grasps at all the longing and desperation there, a tune you recognize-- _House of the Rising Sun_. “That ain’t all, though, is it,” he says as the song carries softly over the sand.

“No,” you find yourself admitting.

No one speaks for a while longer, and you know neither of the mercenaries will try to draw any further answer from you that you do not wish to give. The very thought puts a pang in your heart.

“What do you think of him?” you ask.

You have no idea how Engineer knows which ‘him’ you mean, but he answers accordingly before you can explain: “The doc,” he says slowly, “ is enthusiastic, and a bit on the merciless side—I won’t lie to ya—but he’s good at what he does. He won’t let nothin’ damage ya permanent.”

You look at your feet, half-burrowed in crumbling dirt and sand. “So he’s… pretty fair, then?”

His fingers pause on the strings. “Hmm—well. Medic’s pretty trustworthy. Is this about that experimental heart ‘a yours?”

“Well—” You wrap your arms around your knees. “—yeah. How did you…?”

Engineer lets a little half-grin spread across his lips. “Who d’ya think helped him build it? Medic’s pretty brilliant about the human body, but he needs a little extra expertise when it comes to machinery, just to get things more efficient. But don’t mistake—the medigun, the uber—none a that would exist without him. I’m just the practical guy.”

Pyro tugs your sleeve as Engineer’s attention returns to the flames, a more lively tune picking through the air. T-R-U-S-T-W-O-R-T-H-Y, they sign. M-E-D-I-C—K-E-E-P-S—S-E-C-R-E-T-S.

You nod, reflecting, as another stack of wood collapses with a crunch, and Pyro applauds the subsequent shower of sparks as they escape among the stars. You do remember your vitamin this night, when you crawl into bed smelling of sand and smoke as the first grey tendrils of dawn creep through your window. But, _Man_ , you cannot help remembering, too, _is a very ugly creature when you examine him closely._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This excerpt of _Monte Cristo_ , translated of course by Lowell Bair, is brought to you from page 176, chapter 26.


	22. Mendacity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to jinx myself, but... it looks like the weekly updates might be back. Again, my thanks to kilgamesh over on tumblr for betaing!

Saturday was largely spent in your room, emerging only for a bite of toast in the vacant kitchen, and to utilize the hall’s bathroom. The bottle of scotch sat within reach, on the nightstand, not that you are able to stomach more than a sip or two with only one piece of toast and a glass of water in your body. The alcohol swam along your blood every couple hours, releasing the tension that had gathered across your shoulders while dragging up such unwanted thoughts that, by afternoon, you weren’t sure if the stuff was a blessing or a curse.

You still have not written to your mother, you realize as the clock reads somewhere between 3:45 and 4:00. But you do not lift yourself from the bed. You do not move your hand to find a pen and paper in the nightstand drawer. You stare instead at the beams above, scarred and worn, as yellow sun streaks between the window-bars, casting creeping shadows that drag along the opposite wall until they kiss the ceiling.

What would you even say?

 _Mom,_ you consider. _How are you?_

But you would want an immediate reply to that question. A reply you would have to wait weeks for—and that was if Miss Pauling even agreed to give your parents a false address, went through the trouble of sending someone to the P.O. box, of forwarding the letter to her, then delivering it here to you.

There is a phone.

But you don’t feel right about using it. Not when it wouldn’t align properly with the story you had told your parents.

You press the heels of your hands over your eyes. The _CIA_ , of all things. If your father had caught on to your story, he had made no sign. But surely he knew that, after the way your Naval training ended, the idea that someone from “higher up” thought “you had potential for overseas work” was… frankly ridiculous.

All the same, something Miss Pauling said must have convinced him. Or maybe, it was just the money.

In either case, training and then working with the CIA involved little to no contact with family, and in any case where contact was made, your parents could not know where you were, whether it be in or out of the country. And they accepted it. Hell, maybe it wasn’t the money—maybe it was all that mess with the Soviets. Every time you heard the crackle of a radio newscaster, you were reminded: it was putting everyone on edge. How much of a stretch was it to believe utmost secrecy was necessary to your faux post with the CIA, even in training?

Paycheck. Your hands slide to your hairline, and clutch at it. Who gives a fuck about _secrecy_ —you need a fucking _paycheck_.

You turn over, bury your face in the coarse fabric of your pillowcase. The tears are already there, prickling at your eyes. You wonder why you have any left. How many times can one person cry over the same thing?

 _Mom_. _How are you? I hope you’re not pushing yourself. I don’t want to have to rush back because you’ve gotten an infection again--_

No. Your fingers curl into the mattress.

_Mom. I hope you’re doing well. I miss being home, and I miss seeing you and Dad and--_

No. You’ll worry her.

_Mom. I’m sure you’re worried about me; please don’t be. Things are fine._

No. You have no idea if things will be fine. Not before tomorrow.

Your pillow sails across the room and strikes the door with a sad, soft _thump_. It slumps to the floor, and that just makes you angry. _Why why why why why_ are you so **_stupid_** —

You curl up tight, knees tucked up under your chest, arms wrapped around your head, burying your nose in itchy blankets, trying to quell the desire to break anything within reach. _Fuck. Stupid_. You can’t do anything properly. You can’t keep a job, can’t finish a thought, can’t help your mother, can’t can’t can’t _fucking can’t_.

A tight, sharp breath through your nose. You grit your teeth. Draw your arms and knees closer. You release the breath on a hiss. The coiled, wrathful thoughts leave, but the tension, the latent, furious energy, still crawls through your limbs, burns in your chest, creeps along your skin.

You need to walk, run, _shoot something_.

You can’t peel yourself from the mattress.

* * *

 

It seems you had fallen asleep that way, because you next find yourself on the floor, Lancaster in hand, grateful that you weren’t so trigger-happy that you fired when the next knock came. You rub sticky eyes, squinting at the clock as you call--“Who is it?”--and find it is after seven in the evening. Unless, of course, it was actually seven o’clock on

Sunday—

“Is Heavy. You have eaten supper?”

Still Saturday. You replace the pistol where your pillow should be with a groan. “No,” you admit. You walk toward the door, eyeing the space on the floor where your pillow is still sadly slouched. You pick it up and toss it back to the bed before unlatching and opening the door.

Heavy is there, bowing his head a little under the door-frame. “Why?”

You lick your lips, trying to convince your mouth to be a little less dry, hoping your eyes don’t give away the afternoon’s major activity. “Fell asleep,” you say, and don’t bother with the ‘crying’ bit, nor the bit where you haven’t been hungry all day.

“Should eat,” says the man simply, shrugging massive shoulders.

“Yeah.” You lean against the edge of the door, still clutching the handle.

He nods, slowly. “Now.”

You study the hulking man in your doorway. Without a doubt, he could easily hoist you over his shoulder and force you to the kitchen, if he so chose. But you are not afraid. Imposing, Heavy might be, but for you, in this moment, he only seems solid--unwavering, not threatening.

So, “All right,” you say, and find yourself following the Russian down the hall.

Strange, you find yourself considering, that the great, Red fear of the nation manifested here in a giant that just wanted to make sure you did not starve.

The monosyllabic conversation continues through dinner—affirmation or denial of assistance, of preferences. Leftovers are fixed into something edible. Food is consumed.You find yourself in the tiny library again, sitting across from Heavy in a little, cushioned chair. His eyes, serious, remind you of the sky when it snows.

“Are you comfortable seeing Medic?” he asks.

You know the surprise shows all over your face. “Am I…?”

“Yes. I know you will be seeing him for experiment.” His gaze is steady, not judging; he states simple fact. Still, you find yourself shifting uncomfortably in your chair.

“Yes,” you say.

But Heavy’s mouth tugs in a slight frown. “Also know you are still upset.”

You do duck your head at this.

“Scout is all right, if this is what bothers you.” His brow is furrowed slightly when you lift your gaze. You are glad to hear it, and cannot help wondering if your teammate had received a similar visit earlier today. “Saw him briefly,” Heavy continues. “He was running courses and arguing with Soldier. Normal day.” He shrugs.

“I’m really glad. I… don’t want to be a problem.”

“Not problem.” The firm, stony edge of his voice makes you believe it for a moment.

Silence settles, and you turn your eyes to the titles on the shelves as Heavy shifts a little in his oversized armchair, busying his hands with some tomes left on the table. He piles them neatly. Many of the books are well-worn, paperbacks and faded, hard covers, crinkled brown and blue and black and burgundy.

“You were…” Your eyes return to Heavy as he seems to struggle for a word, eyes flicking through the air like he might find it printed there. “... _upset_ ,” he decides, though from the way he frowns as he says it, you can tell it is not the word he wanted. “Yesterday, when you learned _doktor_ does not have license.”

Your hands worry the arms of the chair. The wood is dry, cracked under your fingers, in need of a new coat of varnish. You have no idea how to explain your concern. “It isn’t… legal to practice without a license.”

Heavy shrugs. “Is not legal to kill for money.”

You purse your lips and try again. “If a doctor doesn’t have a license, that means he lost it. And… doctors only lose their licenses if they’ve--” You bite the inside of your cheek. Done what? Anything worse than poisoning a patient in the name of ‘curing’ them? “--done something terrible.” Vague, utterly lame responses. Well, at least you’re coherent.

“You have not also done terrible things?” Heavy asks, and you did not know it was possible to say such a thing without the smallest ounce of blame seeping into the words. No, his voice and those grey eyes were as steady as ever, even and mild.

“It’s different.” You bite your tongue as the words leave your lips. _Why?_ you’re already asking before Heavy gets the chance. “I don’t…” You stop. Try again. “I do terrible things… It isn’t on purpose.” But you do kill on purpose. _But they don’t stay dead_. If you kill them and they come back alive, does that mean it never happened? If they feel pain that is erased in the next instant, have you really caused them any damage?

Does a doctor lose a patient because he chose to?

Heavy must see something in you, because he says no more, only looks on, considering. Does he know you’ve floundered and come up with no satisfactory answer? Is there some defeat written in your eyes?

At last, he nods, slowly. “Ask him next time, and then you can decide if you are comfortable, _da?_ Do not agree to things if you are not comfortable. If you do,” he says seriously, “there will be hurt.”

 _On my part or the doctor’s?_ you wonder, and shudder, recalling the day you tried to kill him in his own infirmary. Perhaps it would be both. “I will,” you promise. But you’re not sure if you’ll have the courage. It is possible that there will not be a next time.

“Miss Pauling will sign your contract tomorrow.”

Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline. It’s almost as though he knew the somber color of your thoughts. “What makes you say that?” you ask.

Heavy shrugs his massive shoulders. “You are good asset to team.” He says it so simply that you are not inclined to disagree. Like it’s some invariable truth.

“How can you be so sure?” you find yourself asking, with a pure, genuine desire for the answer. How?

He smiles a little at that, mouth quirking at its edge. “Because is true. You will see tomorrow, _spetsialist_.”


	23. Buried in Symbols

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would not be possible without kilgamesh, over on tumblr, who helped me a great deal when I started getting frustrated with different aspects of the action (that I had not adequately planned--imagine that). Thank you so much, Beretta--this one's for you!
> 
> Warning for repeated mentions of throwing up, though it never actually happens. Some mild dissociation maybe.

Tomorrow comes early as you cannot stay asleep for more than a couple hours at a time, waking to darkness over and over as your stomach tangles itself in knots, and your mind spins in circles that keep you just on the edge of nightmares and the comfort of your bed.

From what you know of Miss Pauling—little, resolute, professional Miss Pauling—you cannot help but believe the woman will arrive early this fine Sunday morning, hand over what was more than likely your letter of rejection, and order you to be gone from the base by sundown. Stomach turning, tumbling, trembling, you shrug on the uniform coat, pulling it secure over your shoulders, laying the collar even. You strap the Lancaster to your thigh; the weight feels good. The coat makes you feel hidden, enveloped and warm.

But you hesitate at the door. Is it incredibly pretentious to dress in the role you may be denied?

You try to duck into the high rim of the collar. You push into the hall, feeling the gentle tug of the holster on your thigh, the faint chill of the air-conditioned hall on your cheeks. The flex of your thigh alongside the pistol feels right and real.

No, there isn’t a damned reason you can’t wear this coat. You’ve worked months for this, gave up seeing your mother heal for this. You—

Scout totters out of his door in a wrinkled pair of shorts and t-shirt, hair a mess of stuck-up tufts. There’s a bounce in his step again; relief floods your chest as your previous thoughts evaporate into air.

“Good mornin’, Spesh!” An easy jog puts him at your side, as though the thought that you’d be even with his door very shortly, should he wait, did not occur to him. “Pretty nervous?”

You bite back several comments about throwing up, his astute powers of observation, and your desire to run outside and scream like a madwoman. “Yeah.”

Scout nods. “I don’t think you need ta worry about it. Miss P’s pretty fair, and you’ve been pretty good this week.” He gives you a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth sneaking up in a cocky little grin. “Y’know, not like _my_ caliber or anythin’, but pretty damn decent.”

First instinct is to roll your eyes. “Thanks. Feeling fantastic now.”

But you do find your stomach _has_ settled a bit.

He grins, heaving his shoulders in an elaborate shrug. “I just have that effect on people.” The boy holds open the door to the mess hall for you, and furrows his brow as you pass. “You goin’ somewhere?” He gestures up and down. Your brow furrows, too, as you try to figure out exactly—

Oh. “The coat?”

“Yeah. We’re off today, unless you know somethin’ I don’t know.”

You attempt a casual shrug, but it manifests stiffly, all wrong. “Just thought I’d wear it,” you say, and it sounds hollow even to your own ears. What else could you say? You felt safe in it? Strong? Sure?

It makes you feel like you _are_ part of the team, simple and red and clean?

No. “Just felt like it” is really the only verbal answer you can possibly give. And Scout seems to accept it, bustling over to the refrigerator for a half-gallon of borderline-questionable milk. As for you, you tug a cup down from the cupboard for your morning beverage, careful to check the ceramic for old coffee-rings or scummy traces of soup. The mug is acceptable, but—

There’s a trace of spicy smoke on the air, and your fingers immediately find the grip of your pistol just as a hand finds your wrist. “Fair warning,” curls a voice, soft, at your ear. “Our doctor is on his way.” Our? Your bare fingers curl into the handle and trigger as your teeth creak, shoulders tense-- “ _Our_ doctor, _mademoiselle_.” He releases your wrist only when your hand falls slack against your thigh. A faint current of air signals the beginning of his departure. “I will intervene if necessary.” You open your mouth, but you know he’s gone.

Damn spies.

Scout has a mouthful of toast. “What’cha doin’ over there? Catchin’ flies?”

You snap your mouth closed, quite unsure how to broach the subject. He needs the warning more, but how to delicately...

There’s a stutter and a grinding halt in the easy breakfast-time domesticity when those parade-polished heels click in from the hall. You’re much too late as Scout squares his shoulders and folds his arms tight, glass of milk in one hand and toast in the other. Much too late as Medic’s eyes sweep over the boy with a cool ambivalence over his spectacles. Much too late as the doctor reaches above your head to pluck another mug from the cabinet, quite unbothered by the fact that your nose is almost buried his sleeve.

He smells like antiseptic and it’s all you can do to ignore the reflexive bile that rises in your throat but at least he doesn’t smell of blood and dust and gunmetal glinting steel—

You draw your next breath, sharp, as he moves to set the coffee kettle, back pressed hard into the counter, its tiled edge drawing a line across your spine; the air smells of wood and old bacon. Fingers curled, you inhale again, focus on the stale breakfast smell.

“ _Guten Morgen_ ,” he says at last.

Scout takes a sullen bite of his toast.

“Good morning,” you manage, and the corner of Medic’s mouth twitches in a smile. Your nails dig into your palms, and you stare resolutely at the cracked tiles on the floor. This is your teammate, not your enemy, no matter how familiar his face.

But even as you return to your own mug and redouble your efforts to make something of breakfast, you cannot shake the feeling that you’ve been mocked.

The silence settles uneasily, but the minutes tick by, and you fill your cup. Scout sits next to you at the table, and nothing worth an intervention occurs. You stomach a piece of toast. Medic stirs his coffee. Scout finishes his milk. You keep sipping.

Scout finally taps his fingers against the worn grain of the tabletop. “Placin’ any bets for Spesh today?” he asks, but does not look at the doctor. The doctor-sans-license.

Medic unfortunately takes this as an invitation to sit down across from you both. “It would be a pointless exercise,” he says. “Zhere would be no bets against her.”

The boy snorts. “What, ‘cause she’s your pet project?”

But you’re still staring at the doctor. You knew _he_ wanted you to stay, but to claim such confidence in your abilities, in what little potential you might have shown this week…?

Your mug is halfway to your lips, and you make no move to put it down nor to sip.

And he’s looking at you.

“I’m flattered you believe the rest of zhe team thinks so highly of my work.”

You want to look away, but you can’t help looking for some _reason_ in the arch of his brow, the sardonic turn of his lips as he addresses Scout, but looks at you.

“Hey, uh—” The crinkling of the boy’s brow is practically audible. “You all right, there, Spesh?”

“Yeah, fine.” A scalding glup does an extraordinarily poor job of covering your embarrassment. “I’m—um—I’m sure a few people have criticisms of this week regardless of—er—Medic’s… work.”

“Nonsense,” says Medic brusquely, unpinning you from his gaze. “You have adapted _und_ performed admirably.”

“Yeah, keep goin’, doc.” Scout grumbles; he pushes back his chair, swiping his empty glass off the table and dumping it in the sink.

The doctor still doesn’t pay the boy any mind. “I would expect Miss Pauling zhis afternoon. Do you have any plans for the day?”

Your brow creases. Plans? Beyond trying to keep your toast from leaping out of your gut at the first sign of a nervous influx? Why? “It’s my day off,” you reply dumbly.

Medic nods amicably. “ _Ja_. _Und_ , if you have no other plans, perhaps you could make time to return to zhe infirmary with me. I have some thoughts.”

As a chill creeps over your skin, your stomach drops somewhere far below your chair.

Well, at least you don’t have to worry about throwing up anymore.

“You’re shittin’ me, doc.” Scout leans against the counter, easily replying in your place. “Tryin’ to talk somebody into workin’ on the weekend?”

Medic straightens his glasses, finally deigning to turn his gaze to your teammate. “It’s not vork if it’s voluntary recreational experimentation.”

“Not true,” you mumble into your mug.

“ _Und_ besides, we’re being paid!”

“We’re bein’ paid _regardless_.” Scout rolls his eyes. “I’d rather get paid for not getting cut open, thanks very much.”

“Well,” says the doctor stiffly, “I was not asking _you_.”

And his eyes are on you again as you try to pretend you’re somewhere far, _far_ away. Like your room. Or a sunny beach with white sand in--no, no; never mind. Sand has been ruined for you regardless of color. A river instead maybe. With muddy banks and tall grass.

“Vell?”

Sadly, you are not on a sunny river-bank apart from your nerves and decisions that, were they not so grave, might amuse you with their fictional-levels of ridiculousness.

Join Dr. Frankenstein in his lab, _indeed_.

At least Victor Frankenstein had a fucking license.

“Well, I…” You coil your hands around your mug. “What if Miss Pauling arrives early?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “You don’t need to worry about zhat. If anything, she’s more likely to be _late_. Now—”

“Ya don’t have to go,” Scout interjects with a shrug. “We’re workin’ tomorrow, and if you wanna let him cut ya open _then_ , whatevah. But you don’t gotta do it today.”

You know that; of course you do. And surely Medic isn’t vindictive enough to jeopardize having you here if you say no? But--but if you can manage it…

No. Your stomach roils, your nerves flag, your mind is stretched thin already, a trembling, fragile band of rubber. You wouldn’t make it. “I’d—really rather not, if that’s fine.”

Your fingers tighten around the cup as his brows arch, and you grit your teeth. You know you’ll do it if he insists.

But Medic shoves himself from the table, chair scraping horribly. “Suit yourself, Specialist.” The way he hits each consonant, guttural and harsh, curls you further around your mug.

And then he’s gone, tromping off down the hall, the click of his boots drawing distant.

“Moody asshole,” observes Scout.

You’re just glad Medic hadn’t pressed the issue.

Though you have no idea what you’re going to do with your day now, _far_ from the infirmary. You settle for taking another drink.

“Ya know what?” Scout asks suddenly, and doesn’t wait for even a grunt in reply. “You look like you need to play ball.”

* * *

 Honestly, after an hour, standing in your undershirt while your coat lays neatly draped over the nearby fence, you strongly suspect that _Scout_ was, in fact, the one that needed to “play ball.” His over-eager batting and the fact that there were only two of you in the middle of a damned desert had already lost you six baseballs to the dusty red wasteland. Any balls that weren’t lost dented the shed at your back with nasty _crack_ s that left deep divots in the wood.

You catch this one in the glove he’d lent you with a _snap_. Underneath, your palm stings. “Letting off a little misplaced aggression, Scout?” You ask dryly, and pitch again. He doesn’t swing this time; the throw was too high. He catches it bare-handed instead. There’s some massive structure behind him, about twenty feet back--much larger than the storage sheds that dot the area--but the ball never gets far enough past him to strike it.

“Ain’t you?” Scout grins.

Honestly, you don’t have any aggression left for the day. Your bones are weary, and your stomach turns near-constantly, until you question why, only to remember what it is you’re nervous about, and proceed to become twice as anxious. You shrug, and catch the ball he returns. “I don’t exactly feel like kicking the shit out of anything right now.”

You decide not to mention that if you weren’t standing in the yard with sweat steadily pouring off your brow, you’d probably be curled up around a pillow, pretending you didn’t exist.

Scout laughs and when you pitch again, smacks the ball off to your right, where it cracks against the shed again. “Guess most people get tired of it. Me?” He puffs out his chest. “I’m always ready ta go.”

A smile inches its way over your mouth without permission. You cover it by bending down to pull the dust-discolored ball out of the dirt and sand. You wipe your brow as Scout saunters over, offering the bat, and bite back a groan, tempted to just wipe your face down the front of your undershirt. You’re really shitty at this part of the whole ‘baseball’ thing.

Now is as good a time as any to wonder about the structure across the way. “What’s the building there?”

The boy follows your gaze to the edifice you’ve been facing this entire time. “Dat’s got weights ‘n stuff in it. Basically our gym.” He shrugs, now directly trading the glove and bat.

But your interest is piqued. “Can I see?”

Scout’s brow furrows. “Uh—sure? I mean, it’s not like anybody’s stoppin’ ya. Ya kinda live here.”

 _That_ is like a punch in the gut. _You live here_. You do. You have. For a week now. And in a matter of hours or minutes, it could all be gone. The months spent training—days on end disassembling, reassembling your weapons, firing in the range, learning the maps, late nights reading dossiers and praying, fearing all this would not be enough—

“No one… ever mentioned it,” is all you say, distant.

Scout taps the bat restlessly against his heels. “Yeah… Soldier really likes his obstacle course, and I don’t think anybody else uses it much. Heavy, sometimes, maybe. Demo, on weekends, if he feels like it with that sword a his.”

And—and you’re _angry_.

How _dare_ anyone believe they can tell you whether you deserve this position or not? They brought you on, months in advance. Brought you to the middle of a god-forsaken desert. Gave you a room. A new name. And today _they_ will decide whether or not to take it all away?

“Um—Spesh, you gonna go or are we playin’?”

That was the fucking question, wasn’t it?

“Yeah.” You snatch your coat off the fence where it hangs, shake the sand from it. “We’re doing one of those things.”

Scout watches with a furrowed brow as you stride past, headed for the broad, squat building with its sloping roof and rough walls. “You--uh--you ok?” He catches up in just two bounds.

Your fingers curl into the heavy fabric of the scarlet coat. “I’m… okay.”

“Uh, nice try, there, but I don’t think ya are.”

“I’ll be fine, Scout.” Your boots kick up little, orange clouds of dust.

He puffs out a little, annoyed breath, but you pay it no mind, pushing your way through the heavy door into the gym. You stop so short that Scout jostles your elbow in the doorway.

‘A few weights and stuff’ is not the way you would have described it. Weights there were, yes, but the room was _huge_. Targets, armor, supplies piled in the corners, on shelves. A finished floor fit for basketball (though you see no hoops). Blanks. Clay pigeons. More baseballs. Punching bags. A _boxing ring_.

“There’s a boxing ring.”

Scout heaves his shoulders carelessly. “Uh… yeah.”

You face him directly as the door clicks shut. “ _It’s a boxing ring_.”

“Um… that’s what ya said.”

The fury is still burning in your gut, but it wars with the familiarity of this single thing. You have to know. There’s even a wrestling mat stored along the wall. Your fingers are wringing the hell out of your coat. Just the sight of it has you itching to jump in. Everything--everything would be fine for fifteen minutes. Stance, sweat, blood--—

The door creaks.

“Specialist!” You turn to find Miss Pauling there, clipboard tucked under her arm, glasses sliding crookedly down her nose. “Nobody knew where you went.”

Any determination that had arisen, flowing through your veins, throws in the towel immediately. Your shoulders slump. Your mouth runs dry. A chill creeps down your spine.

“Miss P!” Scout stops just short of sliding an arm around her shoulders, folding flustered arms over his chest. “Great ta see ya!”

“Scout.” She doesn’t even really look at him; spares him a single glance and fixes you in her gaze. You wish she wouldn’t. “I need to borrow the specialist for a few minutes, so if you could—”

“Yeah—yeah, no problem!” The boy gives you a broad grin, claps you on the back. “Good luck! I’ll see ya in the mess, Spesh; it’s gotta be time for lunch.” He gives Miss Pauling another too-wide smile on his way past. “Maybe we can talk for a minute before ya have ta leave today an—”

“Scout, please.”

“Got it, got it—sorry.” He pushes the door. “But seriously—”

“ _Scout!_ ”

“Gone!” And he was, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

There’s bile rising in your throat when Miss Pauling turns back to you. She straightens her glasses and smiles. “Nervous?” she asks.

Not even one irritable, sharp response comes to mind. “Yes.”

She gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Don’t be.”

That was certainly very easy for everyone to say, wasn’t it? You try to return her smile, but you have a feeling it looks less than relaxed. From the way Miss Pauling’s brow creases, you’d wager it looks more like you’re about to get sick on her sensible, black mary-janes.

“Here,” she says, gesturing to a stack of metal folding-chairs in the corner. You nod and grab two, setting each of them up with a grinding screech of half-rusted joints, and sit only after she does. “Now, I know you’re very nervous, hoping things will go through fine, so we’ll dive right in; this won’t take too long.”

“You’re… very busy,” you manage to say with practiced politeness.

Miss Pauling gives a helpless lift of her shoulders. “Always; it comes with the job. I don’t really even have the time to think about how busy I am, so it’s all right But—” She straightens her glasses again, though this time they do not need it. “—we’re here about you.” You try to meet her eyes as best you can. “I’ll start by saying that the team speaks very highly of you.”

 _All of them?_ Yes, most of the team seemed content with your performance, but what was said to one’s face and out of one’s company are, too often, completely different things. But you keep your mouth firmly shut.

“Reports of your cooperation on the battlefield are, overall, very positive, and footage of the battles supports reports of your skilled performance.”

There’s a ‘ _but_ ’ coming, you can feel it in your gut. You shift in the chair with a creak that echoes uncomfortably through the gym.

Miss Pauling’s eyes have returned to the clipboard. “There is the matter of your lingering psychological complications—what Medic identifies as ‘Gross Stress Reaction’—”

There it is.

“—but, he identifies that it’s well in-hand, so that won’t be an issue unless you wish to terminate our agreement on those grounds, which you may do at any time.”

Your mouth is hanging open, lips parted, voice quite lost. That… that was different. That was…

“Do you want to go home?” Miss Pauling asks.

“No!” You slide to the edge of the chair, which groans in an irritated fashion, but you don’t give a damn. “No—I want to stay. I haven’t changed my mind. If you thought—if my performance—if I did well, yes—yes, I want to stay. I need to stay. You know that, ma’am.”

She meets your eyes again with a gentle gaze. “I know; I remember. I just need you to know that you have the option.”

You nod. “I understand.”

The woman’s gaze flicks to the little, silver watch on her wrist, framed by a worn, black band. “Good. Well, in that case, we can speed things up a little.” From somewhere under the paperwork on her clipboard, Miss Pauling draws a little, scarlet and saffron scrap of fabric. She presses the embroidered circle into your hands, and you forget to breathe. “Congratulations, Specialist.”

Lips parted, you trace the crimson circle. The yellow wash that makes a shining background. The neat, black stitches that form a scarlet shield which houses four, black barrels. The shield and howdah.

A class badge.

 _Your_ badge.

“Affix it to the right shoulder of your coat tonight, and you’re official.”

Your lungs are burning by the time you remember to breathe.

“Well, after a couple signatures on the full contract of course, but—”

In your hands. You can feel it, every satin ridge. Miss Pauling’s voice becomes a gentle rhythm at the back of your mind as you blink the tears from your eyes so you can just keep _looking_. The colors are as bright as your mother’s scarves. And when your gaze blurs again, scarlet and saffron run together in a wash of hope, and all the half-drafted letters of failure in your mind are scattered to the wind when you finally hear Miss Pauling’s words again:

“Welcome to the team.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT, YOU GUYS. WE HIT A MAJOR RESOLUTION. Though I consider it more of a... beginning. Time to start getting down and dirty with some real plot reveals, what do you say?
> 
> Thank you all so very, very much for sticking around, and I look forward to getting into even more in the next few chapters.


	24. Correspondence Interruptus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter, but... on the dense side. You'll see what I mean. Gonna get rolling.
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning for: disembowelment, medical unpleasantness**

\---

_Mom, I hope you’re well. I’m so excited about this job. I know I’ll be gone for most of the year, but I may be able to visit next spring. Your letters will find me wherever I am, so don’t worry about that. Well--they’ll find me eventually. I’m relatively safe, and very happy with what I’m doing. It’s exciting. I’ve finally gotten somewhere. I just wish--_

_Mom, I hope you’re well. I love where I am right now. I secured the position, and I won’t be home for a while, so I just really want to know how you--_

_Mom, I hope you’re well. I wish the best for everyone at home. Especially you, all things cons--_

_Mom, I hope you’re well. I don’t know why I didn’t--_

You throw down the pencil and it clicks against the near-empty bottle of scotch on the library’s table. _Fucking shit_.

“Scout tells me you are on team.”

You jump, knees crashing against the underside of the table before your rear smacks back down on the chair.

Heavy stands in the doorway, head bowed a little to fit when he steps through.

“Yes--I--didn’t see you there.” Your eyes return to the table and you flick the pencil so it rolls across the worn, wooden surface, _clickclickclick_. There’s a dull ache behind your eyes. “What time is it?”

Heavy looks at the bottle, then back at you. “Is time to stop drinking.”

A little, burbling laugh bubbles up from your belly. “It started out celebratory.”

“Now you are frustrated.” He taps a large finger on the edge of the table, indicating the crumpled pile of half-written, scratched-up letters.

You’re not laughing now. “Yeah.”

“Scout did not know where you went.”

You roll your eyes. “He patted me on the back and practically ran out after poor Miss Pauling like a puppy.”

“Is…” Heavy’s brow knits together, furrowing, and you realize he’s looking for a word again. “Is--Spy says it,” he grumbles in explanation. “Love of youth. Does not last long. Makes you act silly.”

“He’s… smitten?”

“ _Da!_ Smitten. Good word.”

You’d never really thought about it, but you suppose so, trying to blink the growing headache away.

“I may sit?” He asks, gesturing to the large armchair across from you.

“ ‘f course.” Your tongue does feel a little heavy, now that your teammate mentions how much of the bottle is missing. It really is time to stop.

Heavy does, the chair creaking under his weight. “Wanted to congratulate you,” he says. “Glad to have you on team.” He offers a hand and you clasp it, noting that even after getting to know him, to fight with this mountain of a man, that he controls his handshake well, his grip gentle even as the gesture is firm. The warmth of acceptance washes over you, and you know it isn’t the scotch.

When he lets go, you two sit in a comfortable silence, surrounded by the cozy weight that a room full of books provides, as though the ink has spilled off the pages and made the air laden with silent words. Your eyes wander to the newest draft of the letter. You scoop it up, and crumple it to join the others.

“Do you write letters to your family, Heavy?” You ask. It’s a bold question. You immediately wish you could take that moment of foolish whimsy back. But you can’t.

But Heavy just nods slowly, grey eyes distant. “I write to them often. Call when possible.”

You think you read a veiled sorrow in his gaze, but can you be sure? “Is it hard?” Might as well push your luck. Worst case, he loses his temper and sends you to respawn (you’ve seen no evidence of such hot-headedness in Heavy, however; not like that). Perhaps if you offend him, he’ll just break your jaw and send you to the infirmary.

Never mind. Your stomach drops at the very thought. _That_ is the worst-case scenario. No doubt Medic would add extracurricular surgery to a simple broken bone.

But Heavy simply replies: “ _Da_.” He surveys your pile of crumpled letters a moment. “But, my family knows I fight.” He shrugs. “Am good at it. Pays well.”

You nod, slowly--and stop when it makes your vision a little unsteady. “My parents know I’m doing something dangerous, but… not this.” You rub your temples. “They think I work for the government,” you admit. “But I’m… my mom is very sick. Or was. It’s… she was okay when I left, but not very good.” You look at the tabletop, scattered with ruined papers, the shelves holding worn books, the rough walls--anywhere but Heavy.

The admission makes your heart heavier, not lighter.

“You are worried. Is understandable.”

“I left to help pay for her treatment.” You focus on the rising pain behind your eyes. “I don’t know what to say to her.”

When you raise your head, Heavy suddenly looks years older. There are harsh lines around his eyes, wrinkling his forehead, framing his mouth. “I understand.”

And you believe him. The words hang in the dense air, dark and open. The ache behind your eyes becomes the prickle of tears, but you hold them back.

You _believe_ him.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

Heavy nods, slow and sure. His grey eyes are warm, empty of tears, as though he had already spent them all long ago. “Am sorry, too.”

* * *

 You try again, later, alone in your room:

 _Mom, I hope you’re well. I want you to know that I secured the job, and I’m very, very excited about where I am, but know your letters will find me eventually no matter where I happen to be. So don’t worry about that. As for me, I’m worried--_ Scratch the line. Try again. _So don’t worry about that. I will be gone most of the year, but I might be able to visit next spring. I hope so. In the meantime, I want to know how you are. How you’ve been. Have the doctors--_ Scratch. Try again. _I hope so. I have missed you. Things here are good, but I worry._ Scratch. Again. _I have missed you. I’m sorry I didn’t ask more questions._

You throw away that draft, too.

* * *

 It’s Scout’s turn to make dinner tonight, and he chooses something much trickier than you anticipated, given the conversation you’d had with him earlier in the week: scalloped potatoes with rationed ham he spiced up using some wine and kale from the previous week’s run into town. The potatoes smell wonderful, heavy and savory, sitting in a glass pan upon the worn table as you slide into your usual seat. The chair creaks. The rest of the team has already arrived, most starting in on their meals as you serve yourself, the metal spoon clinking against the pan as you scoop.

Scalloped potatoes, creamy and flecked with pepper on a plastic plate, red, like so much of your life now. The sauce oozes over your plate, steaming, pulling the hue from crimson to rose. You take the first bite and burn your tongue, but they taste just like your mother made them.

She says your name from across the table.

The fork clatters to the floor.

“Mom?”

You’re in a hospital, and someone has dropped a syringe on the tiled floor and it _clicks_ , _clicks_ , _clicks_ , rolls under the wheeled bed with its stiff, papery sheets and silver rails.

The nurse whisks it away, gone before you can see her face, but it’s no matter because you’re staring at the rusty splatter on the white tile in the corner. Someone bled in here and no one bothered to clean it up.

The place reeks of antiseptic, but it’s a _goddamn lie_.

She says your name again and this time the word is attached to a question, but you’re too distracted to know what, exactly, and the doctor slouches in, dispassionate. Mostly-grey with creased skin, sickly pale like it’s absorbed the milky paint from every crisp sheet and corridor. But there’s still that mark on the tile, rusty-brown and flaking. Every breath brings the suffocating edge, alcohol and bleach, deeper through your lungs, a ribbon of needles snaking into your chest.

And it’s cold, cold enough to keep the bodies fresh.

You’re screaming.

Guts on display in the white, cold light, fingers thread through intestines, a bundle of tangled yarn, scraping, sliding, staining the doctor’s fingers. It’s the grey doctor, stained glistening blood-red but it should be blue, should be blue, should be sun and heat not ice and tile, and why? Why should it be blue?

**“Specialist.”**

**-**

You gasp, but your arms won’t move. Eyes snap open and find a moonlit ceiling.

One breath. Twothreefourfivesix.

It’s _your_ ceiling, a silver moon showing through iron bars on the windowpane. There’s a shiver crawling over your skin, head to toe under tangled sheets.

 _Fuck_.

You can’t remember the last time you had a dream quite like that, vivid and clear. It seems there’s a dark veil hanging over your shoulders, cobwebs clouding your head, sticky tendrils left from a nightmare you would like to forget before morning. Slowly, you bring your hands up to your face, rub them gently from your forehead down to your chin.

Yes, it’s the way you remember it. Yes, it feels real enough. A glance to the foot of the bed reveals that, no, your insides are exactly where you left them, though they still writhe and tingle, phantom pain just beginning to fade. You reach for the bottle of water on your bedside table and finish it greedily, lukewarm liquid going easily down a dry throat. It clunks hollowly on the floor when you toss it aside, and bring your knees up to rest your forehead upon, squeezing your eyes shut tight.

But all you can see is your mother, her head bare.

The night will be long.


	25. Second First Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of the semester is getting crazy, but there we are! Thank you, as ever, for your patience!
> 
> **Warning in this chapter for: blood, graphic violence, some dissociation**

Despite the night, you wake early, with plenty of time to sew the patch on the shoulder of your uniform coat. The grey dawn filters through the window, highlighting the creases of our fingers, silhouetting the pull of the needle. Stitch by stitch by stitch, the emblem is secured on your dominant side, proud, the saffron field catching the early morning glow and making the sunlight, flowing quiet through the window-bars, its own.

As you button the coat over your chest, you force yourself to recall yesterday’s supper—the real supper—in place of the phantom memory still looming in your mind. The quiet congratulations. The casual conversation, the surprise at Scout’s mastery over bacon and potatoes. Medic’s curious absence, attributed, in your opinion, to your refusal to join him in the infirmary, though Engineer insisted the doctor frequently got distracted with personal projects and it was likely nothing to do with you. Well, you’d see today, whatever the case.

On your way out the door, your eyes fall on the little wastebasket, overflowing with crumpled scraps of ink-stained paper. A graveyard of letters. You bite your tongue, shake it off.

You are assigned a locker in the minutes before the match begins, located halfway between Heavy and Demo parallel to the metal benches. You fill it with bottles of water. The latter slaps you on the back, welcoming your first truly official match. You hear the countdown under the fluorescents. You don’t notice Medic until he’s out the door after Heavy, and you decide it’s probably better that way.

You draw your weapons. You follow the steps you’ve learned upon this field. Distantly, the first point is captured. Distantly, you slaughter your way over the cracked, orange soil. The sun rises. It glares overhead. Sweat runs down your forehead in sticky rivulets. Your Gyrojet hisses. Shots crack against your shield. Second point, third point. Fourth—

 _PAIN_.

Hot, slicing through your arm with such force that your pistol nearly skitters to the ground. Your shield comes up, drop to one knee, but—

The ground rushes to meet your back, a hollow _thump_ that throws your breath from your chest and by the time your vision has righted itself: “Looks like you’re still fucking here,” your own voice spits, too close to your skin, saliva sprinkling your cheeks.

“Yeah,” you grunt, gathering up your legs even as the BLU specialist presses down with her full weight, shield locked with yours, crushing and snarling, white-hot sparks of pain shooting into your chest with each attempt to throw the doppelganger and her pistol back.

“I’d say ‘congratulations,’ but I think _fuck you_ is more in order.”

A bark of pain escapes your lips as her wrist slips from your grip, punching her Lancaster straight into what you are sure is a bloody bullet wound through the bicep, scarlet pain flickering, flooding, clouding your vision. “Fuck you, too.” Your fingers try to find her hand again, to pry the pistol from her grip, your Gyrojet lost somewhere in the sand around you, past the snarling mirror presented before your own visage.

But now your fingers are gliding, sliding through blood and sweat, well-oiled skin on skin, coats catching, and you can’t bring your legs under the shields to force her off and away. Panic creeps in, mingles with the pain, pooling behind your eyes, shocks riding the skin and sinew through your arm until the only thing keeping you from dropping your fist is the mad threat in the BLU’s eyes, eyes you’ve seen a hundred times looking at you from the surface of a pool, through the fog of a bathroom mirror, the waxed surface of a towncar, and here, alight, alive with such _wrath_ , calling without words for blood—

 _Snick_. _Snick, snick, snick_.

You grunt as your double collapses, boneless, and a familiar burgundy suit melts out of the air above. Spy wipes his blade on the BLU specialist’s back before flicking it closed, the silver balisong disappearing within the folds of his coat.

“This is what happens when you wander off alone,” he says flippantly.

One patent-leather shoe helps you nudge the corpse off your body, and you manage one deep, sand-laced breath as she strikes the ground. You have forgotten the gunshot wound as you try to push yourself up, and promptly collapse over your arm—burning, stinging, aching, searing—

“Shit.”

“You may want to find Medic,” the Frenchman lilts. “As for me, I have other business.”

Gloved fingers curl into a fist. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just—”

“ _Au revoir_ , _mademoiselle_.”

Ass.

Once more, you try for a standing position, this time getting your boots under your hips first, keeping your weight off the injured arm. It’s awkward with a shield still waving about attached to the other like a kite catching every little breeze, but you manage.

The BLU’s corpse is gone, only a rusty stain in the sand to suggest it had been there at all, and no trace whatsoever of Spy remains. You wonder what the hell everyone seems to have against medi-kits.

There are gunshots in the distance for you to filter back into your hearing—the patter of guns sprinkled with explosions, like rain and thunder. The battle had moved on without you, or you without it, if Spy’s dry commentary was any indication. Well, you feel more yourself now, in control, as you jog across the packed dirt, gritting your teeth with every step as it jostles your arm and shoulder. But you still don’t want to see the medic. The very thought sinks a stone of trepidation into the pit of your stomach. What if he is angry after yesterday? What if he holds your rejection against you? What if he refuses to heal you?

Well, then you’ll finally have occasion to use a medi-kit.

You suck a deep breath of the achingly dry air and flick the button on your earpiece. “Medic?” Static. Static and gunshots. That is, until you round the next corner and find him immediately in the fray, tall and bloody, readily recognizable in the white of his coat. He looks—

Occupied. You immediately regret calling. Maybe you can slip off since he hasn’t seen you—

[“ _Ja?_ ”] His voice cuts through the radio static.

“I um—if you can’t it’s—what I mean—I’d like to request, if—”

But he’s caught sight of you, even as he evades the swift swings of the BLU scout’s bat, sunlight glaring on his spectacles. [“ _Ja_. A moment.”]

He does not sound pleased as he kicks the scout’s legs from under him and slashes vigorously, messily at the boy’s throat with the jagged teeth of the bonesaw.

You suddenly feel a bit ill, and fire a handful of shots into the fray before the BLUs notice your position. You finish off the demo, you think, and wound their soldier. And then, Medic approaches, still blood-spattered—none of it so far as you can tell, his—and he nudges you into the cover of the alley.

“I suppose zhis explains where you were,” he says, eying you over his spectacles, and hefts the medigun off his shoulder in half a moment.

“When?” You hiss as the medigun stitches every scratch, scrape, and bullet hole with a series of sharp pinches and replenishes lost blood, searing under the skin. A bone you didn’t even realize was broken snaps into one piece. You flex your hand.

“A moment ago! I tested the adjustments I made to the medigun last night. On Heavy, of course, as a control—and I have increased zhe efficiency greatly—the feedback loop is such that über can be achieved in almost half the time!”

 _Feedback loop_ means little to you, but _greater efficiency_ and _half the time_ , yes, those sound fine--quite all right, in fact. Good, perhaps.

And maybe he sees it on your face.

“How would you like to see how much faster we can make it?” he asks, revealing his teeth in that manic grin you’re becoming perhaps too familiar with.

But you’re grinning right back. Too familiar and too contagious. Truly, your grip on sanity is tenuous. Most importantly-- _he isn’t angry_. “Why not?”

Right now, there is no why, now how, no basket of crumpled letters, no scars, no clinics, no guilt. There’s just a couple of assholes that need to be reminded who they’re dealing with. Because once the über lights your nerves, the world, for just a moment, is yours.


	26. Lend a Hand Redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning in this chapter for: blood, graphic injuries, graphic death, gore, respawn**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy, lovies.

There are so many words for _red_ , and they cross your mind in rapid succession as the energy of the medigun ebbs and flows across your skin, coaxing to the surface a clarity, a buzz and rush that had been missing from your blood this morning, a connection to the very air around you, to the energy of the battle. Your team has yet to capture the fourth point, despite the time you lost wrestling with your doppelganger, despite the seconds spent finding the medic to recover your wounds. Soldier grapples with the demoman—evidently you had _not_ finished him off—two sets of hands grasping the trench shovel, each trying to wrest it away from the other. You fire a shot from the Gyrojet— _shuwush_ —and this time it pierces his neck. He slumps forward and down with a solid kick from your team-mate, spilling scarlet over cerulean and into the cracked dirt.

 _Scarlet_ , it’s the first, the brightest, alive.

A bullet grazes your skin, and before you even register the extent of the damage done, your flesh is sealed again.

“Excellent!” declares Medic, behind you, voice harsh and lilting under the unyielding sun.

You wonder what he can see from there, just over your shoulder—the window in your shield, perhaps, as you keep a shotgun’s spread from passing beyond. If Medic falls, it’s over, your opportunity for that invincible high gone, but you—you, you’re _expendable_ in the meantime, a bulwark of flesh; and another round, this one larger, so much larger, rends a hole in your dominant shoulder, tearing muscle, shattering bone, whistling out the other side.

But there’s crimson crawling along your skin, swimming through your blood, humming, healing with a hiss and a crack and an electric jolt.

 _Crimson_ , the second, the energy, ethereal.

“The time it takes will be even less!” the words spill from his lips in an excited whirl, and a high, tittering laugh follows.

A shiver runs down your spine, whips the adrenaline humming under your skin into a frenzy. “Down!” you bark, and know he obeys in time with the drop of your knee, black steel and Kevlar planted in the sand before you. That bullet had been the first in a volley, courtesy of the BLU heavy, but they get no further against the might of your shield. A flame of pride flickers to life in your chest. You can feel Medic’s breath at your ear as before, only days ago, creeping along your skin, curling under your sweat-soaked collar.

“As before,” he says, as though you could think of anything else. You have to take more damage in this pursuit--this hungry chase for power, for raw invulnerability.

But the pyro is coming up on your dominant side, flamethrower at the ready, and such injury is not so easily controlled, not at all the way you need, so you drop the Gyrojet and unfasten the Lancaster howdah from your thigh, press it between both hands, line up the shot.

_BRRACK!_

The pyro stumbles, weaves, either reeling from a bad shot on your part or simply mad, for that hollow mask keeps surging forward.

_BRRACK!_

Stopped dead this time, mask-down in the dusky dirt, burgundy broken through the back of the blue suit. You return your attention to the heavy’s ceaseless assault, but your mind stays on the bare, broken flesh.

 _Burgundy_ , the third, the dark, rich.

“Once more,” urges Medic at your ear. You heed him, rising slowly, switching your weapons again, and advise him, quietly, to stay three paces behind as you advance. The bullets will strike and graze you, but they must not reach the doctor. This is the plan.

Rising, you advance on the BLU’s position, one solid step at a time, shield protecting your vitals, your very body a barricade for Medic. Bullets tear into your thighs, and your steps waver, even as the medigun’s energy stitches and sears every wound closed before blood can soak your trousers. You keep on. Step by step by step, waiting, breath baited, squinting against the sunlight, listening for--

“Fully charged!” Delight, pure delight gives buoyancy to every letter, and a grin spreads, dangerous over your lips, drinking in the realization, the panic in your adversary’s eyes, the steely edge, the useless anger as he sees his end come before him.

 _Sanguine_. The last. Death.

It comes before black. And after the black comes cold cement.

Respawn.

Your gloved fist strikes the ground, and now your freshly formed knuckles are bruised. “FUCK.” You pound both hands on the cement for good measure, palms open, and push yourself up off the floor. “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.”

Completely un-fucking-acceptable.

And worst--you have no idea what the fuck happened. Setting your jaw, shoulders tense, you draw your shield and Gyrojet, and march for the door. You flick the switch on your earpiece.

“What’s the current objective?”

[“Holdin’ the fourth point,”] Sniper’s voice crackles through the line.

“Thanks,” you grunt, and race across the packed soil. You pass the first point, the second, the third without incident. Engineer is set in a narrow junction between the third and fourth points, and you give him a wave as you pass. You might have spoken, if you weren’t so _dead set_ on learning what, exactly, became of the previous plan.

You wonder what happened to Medic. He had not been in respawn with you. But he had not been the one to reply on the radio, either.

You would have thought, had it been your fault, that he would have some choice words for you. Hell, _you_ have some choice words for you.

The swarm of gunshots grows louder, the distant buzz becoming a roar, and you should slow down, take the next turn cautiously, but you don’t particularly care. You snap your shield to full height all the same, skirting the edge of the shed, and come upon the fourth point.

Demo is there, cackling as the BLU soldier stumbles upon some sticky bombs, and so is Heavy, providing cover fire over the most direct route to BLU’s base. Pyro is sweeping the area. The enemy scout attempts to breach your team’s defense, but even without your aid, you know he won’t get far. You join them on the point all the same, shield raised and ready, and fire a couple shots at the boy.

“How long?” you ask Heavy.

“Ten more minutes,” he says. “Can hold easy if we are not distracted.”

A solemn nod in agreement.

The BLU scout has gotten too close to Pyro, and is wailing in the consequences.

You wonder how appropriate it might be to ask after Medic and the events you have missed. You elect to wait, at least until this round end, and perhaps, if you feel like a gamble, ask the doctor himself.

“Damn bloody unfortunate that last bit o’ dyin’ ye did,” says Demoman.

Your fingers tighten on your weapons with a squeak of leather. “Yeah.” You fire a shot at the enemy soldier who has seen fit to peek around the corner. He disappears before the bullet hits. “What happened?”

“Spy,” he says, casting you a glance; you’re not sure if it is meant to be read as amused or sympathetic. “Put a fookin’ knife between yer ribs.”

“Oh.” You fire another shot at a flicker of blue between spots of cover.

Well, that was certainly delightful. And explained why you died so quickly; that bastard knew how to pierce a heart with ease--that you had learned in the last week. It leaves you as disoriented in respawn as a sniper round to the head.

“Medic was right bloody fookin’ pissed.”

That has your attention. You spare him a glance. “Where is he?”

“Respawn pretty soon I shouldnae wonder.” He fires a grenade with a hollow _thwhoomp_. “INCOMIN’!”

You catch your cheek between your teeth. “Did the spy get him, too, or…?”

The grenade had ricocheted into the alley and, by the agonized sound that followed the boom, took a man or two with it.

Demo utters a raucous laugh. “Nah--ye think the spy _got away_ after that, what with the doctor right behind ‘im like that?”

Your brow furrows. Put like that… “No, probably not.” Unless he was very, very fast. It had happened before.

 “An’ besides, he had a full uber.”

You’re not entirely sure what that has to do with anything except to reflect further shame on the situation and your performance. Evidently, this thought shows on your face, even as you squint across the field to fire at the enemy pyro, weaving across the sand.

 “Mr murr mr mr mrmrph.” Your own pyro is at your elbow now, possibly squinting behind their mask at the doppelganger quickly approaching. Their hands are occupied by the flamethrower, even as you reflexively glance at them for guidance.

Heavy’s mini-gun is spun up and ready again before you even think about engaging the enemy directly, and the BLU is soon no more than a corpse riddled with holes.

“I am not good at understanding little pyro’s language,” the Russian admits as Demo produces a bottle from one of the pockets on his vest and takes a swig. “But, is possible they explain uber. Is correct?”

“Murmrph!” Pyro removes one hand long enough for a thumbs-up.

“Medic used it on himself,” Heavy supplies.

You blink. “I… didn’t realize that could be done without somebody else.”

He shrugs mountainous shoulders. “Is recent development. But before you.”

What a strange expression, _before you_. “So, the energy doesn’t have to be shared? Is it more efficient that way?”

“Is same, maybe?” Heavy shrugs again and spins up his gun as the BLUs seem ready to regroup. “Best to ask Medic.”

Not that you expected otherwise, really. Your next question is one you must swallow as your counterpart, the BLU heavy, and the BLU medic round the corner.

You can’t help the muffled feeling of satisfaction and excitement. Here’s somewhere to throw your energy after that royal cock-up. You won’t make the same mistake.

The folding stock slides off your belt in half a moment, snapping to length, and you affix it to the butt of your Gyrojet with a few turns of the wrist. You brace the barrel on the top of your shield, peering through the Plexiglas view as Pyro and Demoman fan out on either side of the point for cover behind crates and half-finished walls. Your finger edges the trigger, but no one fires. Not yet.

BLU Medic is supporting the heavy, leaving your doppelganger to take point alone. Your teeth creak. A dull ache registers in your jaw. Her gear is the same as yours—you know where a ballistic shield tends not to cover on the move, and, you’re beginning to learn, she’s careless: the legs are a prime target, and her dominant hand, too, currently grasping _her_ _howdah_. Your brow creases. She can’t fire without exposing herself. What’s the game? 

Heels dig into the sand, her pace quickening.

You fire the first shot.

Hit.

You can’t hear her swear over the whirring of two miniguns, and you drop to your knee for best cover as a dozen bullets rattle the Kevlar. Your shield trembles. You hold steady.

Heavy laughs raucously over the din.

The BLU specialist has dropped to a similar defensive position there in the middle of the field, likely nursing her calf, perhaps preparing to switch weapons since she won’t be moving until the medic advances far enough up the field. But, his way is slow-going. Though the BLU heavy can lay down a devastating path of cover fire, they are outnumbered. Demo has lobbed a half-dozen grenades to harry their way. Pyro is slipping closer, dodging around to get behind, take out the deranged doctor— _fuck_. Your stomach drops into your boots as the minigun swings around to scatter bullets at Pyro’s feet, and you fire three desperate shots, but the heavy does not so much as flinch.

Not that you should have expected him to, really. You know the thrill.

But Pyro doesn’t stop, either.

You can see the bullets tear through their suit, their skin, blood shining at their legs and thighs, but _they’re still running like a thing possessed_. Steps waver and wobble, but as soon as a rubber finger pulls the trigger and a roar of flame lights the air, the drumbeat of boots under bullets and explosions alike fall steady, a scarlet demon wielding fire like nature—elemental, sudden and devastating.

But they fall, bloody, beaten just as the first flames licked the heavy’s skin. You ready your pistol again, hot anger rising in your throat. A sharp word can be heard, cracking over the rattle of your own team’s minigun, one that sets your teeth on edge. You know the BLU medic had been counting down to uber. Pyro was felled too soon; the doctor’s sharp, indecipherable word is in reprimand.

And every time you shoot, you only aid them. Your only real hope is one of Demo’s explosives, that one of them might blow the pair away—too much damage all at once to be repaired. Much like a knife to the heart.

Where the fucking hell is Spy when you actually need him?

[“Demo, you stay right where the bloody ‘ell you are.”]

You freeze and flick your gaze to the Scot’s last known position. He’s still there—but barely. He growls over the comm: [“Sniper, can’t ye—”]

_CRACK!_

The BLU specialist slumps forward, fragments of blood and bone spattering her shield, eyes that are yours red and wide and hollow. You draw a hissing breath, stomach writhing in your gut. The heavy and medic had been drawing dangerously close. This is one line of defense out of the equation.

You want to throw up.

[“That’s yer openin’—make use of it!”]

You tear your eyes from the corpse. Sniper must have someone advancing on his position. The three of you are on your own to hold the point. Odds in favor of RED again as long as the medic doesn’t hit uber before you can take them down.

A deep breath of hot air coats your mouth with dust. You perch the Gyrojet’s stock on your shoulder, sure to keep the BLUs from seeing you loosen the Lancaster. You’re the only one with a shot at getting close. If you can get in and surprise them with a point-blank round from the howdah, Heavy and Demoman can surely finish them with ease…

You flick the switch on the earpiece. “I’m going to rush,” you say, low. “I might not get past the heavy, but as soon as one of you gets a clear shot, finish it—blow both of ‘em to Hell.”

[“ _Da_.”]

[“Aye, lass—good fukin’ luck.”]

One breath. Two. Three.

Up you launch yourself as the Gyrojet clatters down to the point, creeping just low enough to the ground to provide maximum cover for your legs; if you don’t make it, after all, this exercise means nothing. And you’re going to _make_ it, by God.

The shield rattles along your arm, screaming at you to stop and stand your ground, but you push forward, toward the incessant whir and clatter of the minigun, toward the mountainous man shouting thick curses and phrases that fall on ears deaf to them. There is the tremor of your arm, the weight of the pistol in your hand, the subtle shift of cracked soil beneath your boots, the pull of muscles under skin as your surge forward. The Lancaster’s hammer clicks under your thumb. You wait until you see the heavy’s snarling face over your shield, and even as he raises his gun higher, you pull your howdah over your shield, level it with the man’s chest.

Perhaps the recoil will push your aim back just enough to give you a headshot. Regardless, this should be the opening your teammates need. Either way, your wrist will be broken beyond proper repair as soon as you pull the trigger.

You pull the trigger.

_BRRACK. CRACK! AH, YES THAT’S THE STUFF. PAIN. SEARING PAIN. OH, FUCKING SHIT._

At least you’ll be dead in a moment anyway. The sight of the BLU heavy’s throat blasting apart like an overripe tomato is more than satisfying enough to carry you through respawn.

But you’re alive. The heavy is at your feet and your hand is _fucking_ useless, your howdah lying on the ground with the heavy. And, the BLU medic—

Snarling, until a scarlet hand draws silver across his throat, a river of red-hot blood, and he joins his partner in the dust. Your own medic stands in his place, grinning like the pair of you had never been through respawn at all.

“ _Zhat_ ,” he says, eyes glittering over blood-spattered spectacles, “vas doctor-assisted homicide!”

You can feel the chuckle start deep in your chest. Is it the wordplay or the adrenaline? The little titter quickly rises into full-on guffaws. Your wrist is aching straight through the bone, but it’s filled with pins-and-needles now, heavy, like someone stuffed it full of cotton. You keep laughing, and decide not to look. Medic is laughing, too, and you wonder if yours sounds quite as mad as his.

He wipes his blade on his doppelganger’s coat, smothering the last of his chuckles, hangs it back on his belt. “Here.” He draws the medi-gun, switches the power on.

You sober quickly, raising your arm to offer your damaged hand, though it is not necessary, and sigh when the beam is focused on your skin, swims through your blood, and bite back a scream when the bones of your wrist snap back into place without ceremony. “Thank you.”

Amusement crinkles the edges of his eyes as he removes his glasses with one hand to try and buff out the blood on his sleeve. “Try not to mangle your hands anymore for the good of zhe team, hm?”


	27. So, a Man Walks Into a Doctor's Office...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! I'm afraid I got a new job at the beginning of May, and had to get used to the new schedule and workload to figure out where I could fit writing in... and then I got a concussion at said job that had me out of work for a month, unable to even read. But! I have returned, good as new!
> 
> Special thanks to kilgamesh once again, and to Sov, who has returned to beta! 
> 
> So, without further ado, my deepest thanks again, and on with the chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning in this chapter for: drugs, medical unpleasantness**

You only get up the courage to ask after you’re on the table, thoughts tumbling slowly: “They told me you used the über on yourself today, after…” but the statement loses its momentum, and you give up on concluding it. You immediately regret bringing it up. The doctor had not been angry on the field after respawn, but that doesn’t mean he is not irritated with you for that spectacular blunder--backstabbed the bloody _instant_ before  über. The shame hangs on your shoulders like the itchy hospital gown on your skin.

“ _ Ja _ ,” he says.

You squeeze your eyes shut against the fluorescent lights.  _ Stupid _ . You want to keep him talking so you don’t have to think, but this--s _ tupid _ . 

But the painkillers are already swirling around your system and you can’t stop your mouth now. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

Surprise this time. “No?” 

You feel Archimedes stirring at your shoulder. 

“Well, I suppose it stands to reason. Zhat is a recent development--before, the energy required what you might call a conduit to make a circuit back to me. A few minor adjustments with Engineer’s aid lets me use it alone, but it is a waste unless I’m in a… tight position.” You can hear the click of tools on the nearby tray.

“Was it a tight position?” As much as you’d like to cram these words back into your mouth, you’re certainly not stopping now.

You can feel his hesitation--or maybe that’s just the warm turn of drugs under your skin. “No.”

No?

“Now no more talking,” he says, and you can’t decipher the tone, but now you’re  _ really _ certain you’ve fucked up.

Archimedes resettles again, rustling his feathers on the skin of your shoulder, nestled against your neck. 

_ CRACK _ .

He’s broken through your breastbone. You wish there was some way to skip that step. You also wonder if, perhaps, he broke it a little harder than necessary today.

“Zhe  _ schweinehund  _ backstabbed you,” he says shortly. “It vas my fault.”

Your brow furrows and you open your eyes against your better judgment. There are flecks of blood spread over Medic’s cheeks, and all his focus is below, where you refuse to look. There’s a crease between his brows, mouth set in a hard line. You can’t speak now to ask  _ why _ he thinks the fault is his.

“I vas… distracted. By zhe time I saw him, I could do nothing.”

There is a sensation of pressure, tugging somewhere on your left ( _ in _ your left, actually). The doctor’s jaw tenses with effort, and you squeeze your eyes shut again. 

“Before you’d touched the ground, I hit zhe uber, but--too late for you. Zhe spy could not cloak, so I killed him.” A light chuckle creeps into his voice, a touch of dissonant delight. “I rent him into three pieces.”

An involuntary shiver crosses your skin.

“Zhe rest were easy, until  _ die uber _ faded; it does not last as long on only me--not to mention how much the effect is prolonged vith your heart to catch zhe current.” You can hear him rummaging through his pile of medical instruments, clinking on the metal tray. “I think it was zhe pyro that finished me.”

You can do little more than wait to see if he deigns to continue. You can’t make any apologies, no exclamations, no questions. There is only the wet sound of blood and tissue and soft breath. 

“But!” he says, too sharp, brighter than the cold, white fluorescents. “We took zhe day right from under the enemy, so it’s of no consequence!”

If your head weren’t swimming so fast, you might be able to follow that thread of too-bright tone and find out what Medic actually means, but every time you grasp it, it slips away, nothing but a beam of light in a corporeal grip.

Archimedes sounds a short, whirring coo. 

“I agree! Zhe heart is working beautifully--but no, you can’t taste it; zhis one is running an electrical current… and I don’t think the Specialist will be so forgiving as Heavy, hm?”

You hope it’s a joke, and try not to squirm under this not-doctor’s fingers. 

Not even a damn doctor what the  _ fuck _ .

Something Heavy had said prickles the back of your mind:  _ Do not agree to things if you are not comfortable.  _ A bit late now, isn’t it? And not just an hour too late--nearly two weeks too late. You signed the papers, submitted to the surgery, and now your heart is forever a ticking time-bomb of tangled wires and copper. 

“Well, Specialist, it appears your heart is holding better zhan anticipated, so we can close you up for today and get you off to dinner.” You open your eyes so you can see his glittering gaze, the amused turn of his lips as he prepares to try and wheedle another surgery out of you. “Unless, of course, there’s something else--”

“Why don’t you have a license?”

As much as the idea of a morphine-free surgery repulses you, you’ll be quite glad when you can keep from blurting stupid questions in the infirmary. 

The man in question blinks once, owlishly, behind his spectacles, before chuckling, low in his throat. The sound sends a cold shiver over your skin, but his voice is warm, cheerful: “It’s quite zhe story. Perhaps while I tell it, we can continue--maybe take a look at your liver!”

Your head is full of clouds, and all you can reason out is that you want to know, and this is the way to learn, so--”Fine.” 

Medic’s responding look of glee is such that even through misty thoughts you add: “But just looking!”

The doctor presses a hand to his chest--and the affronted, hurt look might be believable if said hand weren’t bloodying his white coat in the process. “As though I would do anything else without asking!”

“I think you’d ask  _ afterward _ .”

He shrugs. “I didn’t say whether it vas forgiveness or permission I was asking.”

And if that doesn’t cover every interaction you’d ever had with a doctor, well, slap a helmet on your head and call you Soldier. 

Rather than answer, Medic directs the hanging medi-gun at your flesh, and you can’t help but relax into the prickling heat of the crimson beam before realizing (as your breastbone cracks back into place) that this means he wants to make a  _ second  _ incision to check your liver. Bastard.

“You really want to know how I lost my medical license?” he asks, and a wry grin colors the doctor’s voice.

“Yes.” You wouldn’t have asked otherwise, now would you?

Nonetheless, your stomach turns. 

“You really,  _ really _ want to hear it?” 

Your teeth creak under the pressure of your jaw. “ _ Yes _ .”

Medic leans close over the table, spectacles creeping down the bridge of his nose. He adjusts them, gaze piercing. He reeks of blood and antiseptic and you fight the urge to squeeze your eyes shut. The doctor stops scant inches from your nose. There’s menthol on his breath that does nothing to drown out the metallic tang of his profession.

“A man came to my office.” You try not to notice your own unnerved reflection in his glasses. “An office I had here in America, near zhe east coast. He complained of back problems-- _down to zhe bone_ , he said.” The medic’s voice is low, so low only you would have heard, had anyone else been present. “Well, I could fix zhat, of course. _Vith_ _a bit of surgery_ , I said. So! I put him under.” Quiet, like a well-kept secret. “ _Und_ you know what I did? I made the incisions. Each and every one so precise! Zhis was before my medi-gun, of course, so I had to make do with blood transfusion to keep him alive. Pah! If only I knew then…” He begins to move away, but before relief can settle in your chest, he moves closer, breath at your ear. “No matter. By the time I vas finished, I had his entire skeleton in my possession. _Zhe entire thing!_ And you know vhat else?” Medic lifts his head, blue eyes glittering, exuberant, demanding your attention. “When I left, _he was still alive!_ ”

With a cackle, brusquely he pushes himself from the table, your gurney wheeling out of the beam--but still he laughs, tittering, high-pitched burbles that drop your stomach, chill your skin, snap your foggy mind forward. 

“He was not,” is all you can insist, squeezing your eyes shut against the fluorescents, against the doctor hugging his bloody chest with maniacal glee. 

“Hoo! Hoohoohoohoohoooooo… oh… oh-ho, yes he vas! A triumph, Specialist, indeed eheeeeeheeeheehee--”

“Medic, that’s impossible!”

“Ah-ha...ah… ooohoo…” As his laughter settles into burbling hiccoughs, he grabs the edge of your table, drawing the gurney back to his side--and you with it. 

You hold tight to your snarl of indignation. He’s having you on. He must be. 

“You don’t believe me?”

“Should I?”

He chuckles again, quietly this time. “Does it matter if it’s true? You were expecting something equally horrible,  _ ja? _ ”

You were.

His mouth twists in a smile, as if sharing some private joke all to himself. “Then vhat does it matter? Now, I believe you promised me a surgery…”

Bastard.


	28. Bottom of the Bottle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay once again, but--HAPPY NEW YEAR, friends! I'm sort of embarrassed at how time has been getting away from me.... but hey, I'm doing better than the TF2 comic updates so that counts for something, right?
> 
> Thanks again to Sov for the beta!
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning in this chapter for: alcohol and drunkenness**

You find yourself unwilling to climb into bed after your post-surgery shower, dinner, and five-chapter session of _Monte Cristo_. Sunrise does come early with Soldier’s rendition of reveille and the scent of slightly-burned coffee, but ten o’clock in the evening is hardly late, and there’s a lively buzz under your skin. A buzz that you desperately hope has nothing to do with Medic’s prodding this afternoon; in any case, it makes the very thought of sleep unlikely.

So, you poke around the halls of the base, trying your best to look like you have a destination in mind. Somebody is playing a radio again, a jazzy old tune that could be Glenn Miller or Artie Shaw… old stuff. Your parents’ age of music, something from your childhood. Hell, probably _Medic_ or _Spy’s_ age of music. Your brow furrows. How old is Heavy? Or Engineer for that matter?

You won’t bother theorizing about Pyro. You can start asking about age if and when you finally learn what _gender_ they are and what their bloody _face_ looks like.

You spare a glance into the cluttered rec room and quickly try to move on before you disturb--

“Where ya headed, lass?”

Busted. You slowly turn on your heel and try to think of something. Somewhere. Anywhere. “Uh--nowhere.” Good job. “Wandering.”

Demo and Sniper are kicked back on opposite ends of the sofa, each with a bottle. “Well, then!” says the Scot. “Pull up a seat, Specialist!”

You hesitate for the barest moment before entering the room. As far as you can tell, the television isn’t on. No cards out, no books. Just a drink, it seems, and one sofa cushion available between them.

You grab the nearest mismatched dining-room chair and drag it within reach of the coffee table. If your companions think anything of this decision, they say nothing as Demoman produces another brown bottle from between the cushions beside him and slides it over the gouged tabletop. “Ah always say, if ya can’t sleep, have a drink!”

Your brow creases, but you seize the chilled bottle and pop the top on the edge of the table in a perfectly shameful fashion. Your grandmother is rolling in her grave, but everything in this base could go up in flames tomorrow and _nobody_ would miss this shitty fiberglass and plywood furniture. The cap gives a satisfying pop. “How did you know?”

He shrugs. “Nobody just goes _wanderin’_. Now--drink! Homemade scrumpy, tha’ is.”

You think you’ve heard of scrumpy, but you can’t remember what it is. Not that Demo has steered you wrong before. The first sip is crisp, cold… _cider_. A smile immediately catches your lips and you take a long draught. There’s an aftertaste of cinnamon, like pie. “It’s lovely!”

Ever-silent Sniper makes a sound like a chuckle, and your eyes shift to his bottle. It’s one of those piss-poor beers from the refrigerator.

“Do you have a problem with things that have a flavor besides ‘bitter’?”

He takes a sip from the bottle. “Nah, it’s just that Demo doesn’t usually share.”

Your brows arch straight to your hairline.

“Now tha’s not true. Who brought ye that dark brew after last furlough? Sure as bloody hell wasn’ Scout, was it?”

Sniper shrugs his lanky shoulders. “But it wasn’t the home-brew, was it?”

Demoman waves a dismissive hand. “Ye didnae ask.” He fixes his good eye on you. “Don’t listen ta this piss-throwin, sheep-hu--”

“What?” You’re not sure you heard that correctly.

“Hm? Don’t listen to tha piss-throwin, sheep--”

You can feel the crease between your eyebrows. “ _Piss-throwing?_ ” There’s a sinking feeling in your gut, a nagging memory from the battlefield that… no. No, it has to be another creative insult and nothing more.

The men exchange a look.

And then Sniper crosses an ankle over his knee, reclining further into the sofa. “You mean it wasn’t in me file?”

You blink. “It’s… literal?” _No_.

“Yeah, actual piss.” He takes another sip off the beer. “You’re tellin’ me you’ve gone almost two weeks an’ you ain’t seen jarate?”

Your mind ticks back a few days to the shards of glass in your hair and your unfortunately soaked coat, heavy and sticky on your arms and shoulders. “It… definitely smelled like…”

“Piss,” Sniper nods.

“Piss,” Demo agrees.

Well--damn. You take another swig from your bottle. “...yeah.”

Their ensuing raucous laughter, you assume, is brought on by the taut mixture of disgust and utter regret plastered on your face. Sure, it’s a clever use of one unfortunate byproduct of sitting hours in one place but _please_. Between a bullet to the brain and a face-full of piss, the headshot is by far the more respectable defeat.

“I wish I didn’t know this.”

Of course, that only makes the men laugh harder, and, frowning, you hope Sniper chokes on that beer.

“Start drinkin’ a little faster an’ maybe you’ll forget,” Demo laughs with a cyclopic wink.

“We work in the morning.”

Sniper grins. “So ya need to forget before that.”

You toss back another swallow from the bottle. “You should have to suffer with me. You and your jars of piss.” Elbows on your knees, you pinch the bridge of your nose. Ugh. This is so far from all right. Hair soaked with _piss_. Forget showering; you’re glad respawn exists. So, so, so damn glad.

“Jarate,” he corrects.

You give a most unladylike snort.

Sniper settles the heels of his boots on the coffee table, folding them one over the other, tipping the beer to his lips again. He peers over his shades. “What if I go drink for drink with ya?”

A terrible idea. “Bad idea. We’re working in the morning.”

“Ha! You can take ‘im, lass,” Demo chuckles. “Man’s a damn lightweight!”

You assume the man in question is rolling his eyes behind those aviators. “Am not.” He shrugs. “‘Sides, don’t hurt me none if she’s wantin’ to act responsible. _But_ , there’s always the first respawn of the mornin’. Nothing better for a ‘angover.”

One more drink of the scrumpy as you assess your teammate. Sniper is tall, yes, but rail-thin. You’ve got more mass. You can take him on easily, especially if he’s been drinking with Demo for some time already. What could three or four drinks hurt? It might even quell the restlessness in the pit of your stomach, send you to your room, lull you to sleep before midnight.

“All right, Sniper.” You finish off the cider, savoring the cinnamon on your tongue. “What’s the poison?”

He shakes his head, a tiny grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Don’t wanna have an unfair edge--I’ve got standards, y’know.” He nods toward the third party. “Demo, whatcha got?”

Demoman doesn’t need to be asked twice; he leaps right up with a steadying extra step. You take this as a sign that _you_ have the unfair edge: only one drink down while these two have been at it longer than you can guess.  “Ah’ve got just th’ thing!”

For a moment, you think he’ll run right out of the room, but he skitters to a halt at a rickety-looking cabinet in the far corner. When the doors creak open, you learn that, rather than shelves holding games for slow evenings as you originally assumed during your tour of the base, the shelves sag under the weight of liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes--many empty, never thrown out for lord only knows what reason. And, by some miracle, Demoman reaches his hand back to the rear of the cabinet and tugs forth a square bottle, only knocking one out of place, slamming the doors shut just before the thing teeters off the edge and to an unforgiving doom on the concrete floor.

Demoman brandishes the prize above his head before returning. “Rum!” he declares, and saunters back to the sofa, missing one vital detail:

“Shot glasses?” you ask.

Demo scoffs. “What, we cannae trust you to measure out your own?”

Well, when he puts it _that_ way… “Fine, fine. I’m sure we can both keep things even.” Of course, it might balance out Sniper’s head start if he shorts himself on each drink, so really, it doesn’t matter either way, you suppose.

“Ladies first,” offers Sniper with a grin when Demo presents the bottle between you.

You take it up, clenching your fingers around the thick bottle, down from the neck where your teammate had held it. Indeed, you realize, slowly, as you take your time to swirl the dark liquid about, he holds all his bottles that way.

But you--you're going to tip it back like a cold cuppa.

No matter how this goes down, that Aussie beanpole will be out in under four shots, and you can go to bed with a nice buzz.

* * *

 Oh, gods. You were wrong, _wrong_ , so wrong, so very, very _wrong_.

Well--no--not exactly completely wrong. Sniper is as much a lightweight as you anticipated, but six shots in and he’s so fucking drunk that apparently he looped back around from horizontal to--to--fucking upright. He won’t go down. And the more he drinks, the more ornery he gets and wants less and less to just--stop--just-- _concede._

“‘At’s anothah one. Drink anotheah one. Or rr yah done? Cos I’m not done, shheilah.”

He had to have shorted himself a great deal not to have collapsed over the table by now.  

“Go-on, then, go-on! Or yah done?”

You just want to go to fucking bed. No--wait--not… just bed. Sleeping. Sleeping. Work tomorrow.

“Ffine.” You snatch back the bottle and--you’re… you’re irritated. Sleep. You need it. But you also just feel so damn _nice_ , you know? Like… wow, you feel a giggle bubbling up in your chest, so you let it out. So it doesn’t build up too much pressure in there, yeah?

So now you’re giggling in the middle of a shot and _whoops there it goes._

Rum splattered from your lips all over the coffee table and all over your shirt and all over the sofa which means all over your drunk-ass teammates.

Which of course means everyone is laughing like a tom-fooling idiot, covered in rum.

Sniper, doubled over with only the arm of the sofa holding him somewhat upright. Demoman, snorting over his brown bottle, slapping his knee like seeing someone burn their damn nose snorting a shot is the funniest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

Which reminds you, this _fucking hurts damn it shit_.

You’re desperately rubbing at your nose, but it’s not working and holy hell it _burns_ . “Tha’s it oh shitshitshit that’s it it’s over!” You snort. You keep snorting because oh, _gods_.

“Aha! Ha-ha! Tha’s it, Oi’m tha winnah--kneww it!”

You try to roll your eyes but you still can’t get the fucking alcohol out of your nose so it’s pointless. “You--nnghshit--flakin’, piss--ggghhhhh.”

Meanwhile, Demo is laughing to damn tears; you can hear it.

Probably time to cut your loss… your… time… you should leave. You look like enough of a kook. And you’re still snorting.

Burns like the devil, though, so you’re going to keep the fuck at it. And make your way out.

“Good--gghhhnnnight, asshhholes.”

They only laugh harder, and you still haven’t moved from your chair. You just… need to work up to it. Just a--just a second.

At least the men can’t seem to get any more words out, either.

You push straight up from your seat--get it over with. Ohhhhhhhhhh boy, not a good idea, stomach heaving, head spinning, but shit, you’re upright, so bed it is. Well, bathroom to flush out your nose and then fucking bed. No--not. Bed. Just bed.

“Ghhnnnight.”

“G’noighhahaha.”

“An’ good fookin luck!”


	29. One Hell of a Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay again--finally got a job with insurance and stuff (extraordinary, right?), so I really don't have as much time to work on my writing, but I think I'll start using my lunch break for that purpose... we'll see what happens! In any case, I have no plans to cancel the fic, so don't you worry. That said, I do have a fair portion of chapter 30 written already. Thank you all so much for being patient, and special thanks to Sov for beta-ing this chapter.
> 
>   **Warning in this Chapter For:  hangover, vomiting, blood, graphic violence, torture**

 

You certainly might have thought the light filtering through your little window was beautiful if it weren’t driving a nail straight into your pounding skull.

Oh _hell_ you made a mistake last night.

Somewhere in the base, there’s a bugle trumpeting in time with each throb of your head.

 _Oh shit_.

You sit up, wipe the sticky remnants of drool off your cheek. Apparently you had one amazing fucking sleep but as your stomach rolls and the veins in your head thump an awful jive you wonder whether it was remotely worth _this_.

To make matters worse, if Soldier is already sounding that blasted bugle, that means you’re fifteen minutes late, and _that_ means no breakfast. Ugh--not that you want any. You pass a rough hand over your aching eyes, squint across the room, and try not to let your stomach heave. A little water might be in order. An aspirin if you can keep it down. You scoot gingerly toward the edge of your bed, careful not to give your stomach even the slightest reason to rebel.

And there’s glass on the floor.

You groan, glaring through the morning light to make sense of it. You don’t remember carrying any alcohol to bed with you last night. The water bottles are made from plastic. And--

The shards spread over the floor are few, and they’re amber, and sprinkled among them… pills. Vitamins. Your respawn vitamins. A frustrated sigh escapes your lips, and your head aches. You must have remembered to take one and dropped the rest in the process. Well. You’ll clean that up later. For now, you swing your legs off the mattress and avoid the mess in order to dress for the day.

You almost trip and fall into your wardrobe.

What a day this will turn out to be.

* * *

 [ _Mission begins in ten minutes_.]

You have no idea how you’re even standing and wearing, not just pants, not just an entire uniform, but two guns and a ten-pound shield. Under blinding fluorescents. With every click and greeting and chuckle before seven o’clock in the morning _entirely too fucking loud_. But you did this to yourself, so you stand at the ready, wishing for respawn.

Wishing for it--now that’s just sick.

Your only condolence is that you have seen neither Sniper nor Demoman since the day began. But that doesn’t keep you from wanting to vomit all over your boots.

“ _Guten Morgen!_ ”

“Shit!” You thump into the nearest locker and almost ruin your boots after all, glowering into the bright fluorescents with a squint where Medic stands perfectly preened and grinning as though he’d suddenly apparated and verbally assaulted you on purpose.

“You look terrible, if I may say so, Specialist.”

 _Definitely_ on purpose.

“Thanks,” you croak, and attempt to scrape what’s left of your dignity off the floor by standing straight, folding your arms tight over your chest.

Medic rocks merrily on his heels. “A bit too much to drink?”

“How could you tell?” This is not helping the throbbing in your skull one bit.

“Vell, I haven’t seen Sniper yet this morning--or Demoman, either. Now, coupled with the lovely shade of green you’re wearing, it was--”

[ _Mission begins in five minutes_.]

You do an incredibly poor job of suppressing a groan. The Administrator’s voice is not soothing in the least. “Do me a favor and let me die in the first thirty seconds. I’ll try to take somebody with me.”

The doctor outright laughs, and it sends a brand new set of needles through your brain. “No, no, Specialist, no need.”

At this rate you’ll have a frown permanently etched on your face. “It sure feels necessary to me.”

“What I mean to say is that this is something the medigun can fix.”

The first good thing you’ve heard all morning. “What--really?” You direct a reverent glance at the medical marvel on his back.

Medic nods. “Oh, yes, quite easily.”

You draw a deep, slow breath. Relief, only seconds away. “That would be… fantastic.”

A beat. Two. Three.

“Medic?”

“Yes, Specialist?”

“You’re… not going to help?”

“No.” He smirks.

You should be angry. But all you can manage is a slack jaw and a dumb “Why not?”

[ _Mission begins in two minutes_.]

His Cheshire-cat grin only broadens. “You have a lesson to learn.”

“You--” Your hands clench, unclench against your coat, in the crooks of your elbows. “You--” A stab of dark, throbbing pain as you feel your blood pressure spike unreasonably. “You-- _asshole._ ”

Medic chuckles, and there’s a fucking twinkle in his eyes and even though you think you’ll actually spill your guts all over the floor if you move the slightest inch, you have a mind to sock that look of his smug face anyway--

“GOOOOOOOOOOOOD MORNIN’!”

Oh god oh god fucking stars across your eyes too loud what the fuck.

[ _Mission begins in one minute_.]

Your vision rights itself just in time to see a swaggering figure cruise through the locker room right for you. “ _Demo_ \--how?”

He chuckles, giving you that one-eyed wink that’s only slightly less annoying than Medic’s smarmy grin this morning. “Lass,” Demoman says, “I have a secret, so take it from me: as long as yeh’ve got a new drink in ye,” He takes a quick pull from a hip flask, “you’ll never be regrettin’ the last one.”

Roiling stomach be damned, you’re up for any kind of help. You hold out a hand. “Please.”

[ _Three.._.]

“No!” The doctor waves a hand, and you’re immediately reminded that you still want to punch him. “This is a habit no one needs to start--”

[ _Two…_ ]

“Especially not your pet project, right?” Scout calls from where he leans on the lockers.

[ _One--_ ]

Medic’s brow knits together. “Now, listen here--”

[-- _Go!_ ]

Even your cloudy senses recall with a sobering pang the sound of this particular battle, and you swallow down your nausea to thrust an arm at the doctor. “I swear, if you--”

“Spesh, you don’t gotta--”

“We fight now.” Heavy pushes between you. “The _other_ team.” He gives a pointed frown.

“Indeed.” You nearly jump out of your skin as Spy uncloaks _far too close_ , the spicy curl of smoke reaching your nose--and this time, you do... chuck it, so to speak. Fortunately for you, not on Spy’s patent-leather, but on a nice, bare piece of concrete reached by one desperate, clumsy scramble.

You heave. And heave. And heave. And heave.

Gasp. Spit.

“Kill me,” you croak.

And there comes an unexpected, answering groan: “Only if ya shoot me first, sheila.”

You can hear the squeak of rubber as Pyro throws up their hands. “ _Mph mm mmmph._ ”

“Don’t ya worry, Pyro. They’ll be cleanin’ up their own messes after we win this thing, _won’t ya’ll?_ ” You can’t even get out another sound before your stomach clenches again. Not that you actually want to know what Engie means by messes, plural, and he apparently doesn’t expect an answer as a shuffle of boots moves toward the battlefield. “C’mon, partner; let’s get set.”  

You’re sure this will be more embarrassing after you die, and you’re suddenly not sure if you’d rather stay here on the floor or face the inevitable mockery.

A hand pats your shoulder as your fight the weakness spreading into your arms, the concrete threatening to cut into your palms. “Hey, ya got this,” says Scout.

You try to chuckle, but it comes out as a sad splutter. “Thanks.”

“Just try not to stain the floor too bad, huh?”

You take it back: embarrassment starts now.

“Yeah.”

He gives you a teasing nudge. “See ya out there, Spesh.”

“Uh-huh.” You spit again as the boy jogs off.

Well, on the bright side, at least you’re under contract now, and a little thing like a hangover isn’t going to get you kicked out. Not today, anyway.

But that little bit of sunshine doesn’t keep you from adding another three tosses to your acrid mess.

 _Hell_ , you made a mistake last night. But, you made that bed, so you’re going to have to lie in it. Of course, you’ll be lying in it with trembling legs, a weak stomach, and tongue that sticks to the roof of your mouth, whilst smelling delightfully of vomit--but lie in it you shall. At least, until you hit respawn and life is once again its usual rosy hell.

Rosy--that’s funny because you’re on the RED team, and it’s… red… and…

You spit one last time and push yourself up with shaking limbs.

It wasn’t actually that funny.

Your aching eyes make a quick sweep of the locker room to see how Sniper is fairing--but he’s nowhere to be seen. Apparently that bastard managed to show up at the last damn minute and _still_ beat you to the fight.

“Oi, you done lollygaggin’ yet?”

He’s standing just outside, leaning precariously against the wall with his rifle in hand, sweat rolling down his face. Sniper’s voice may be steady, but you know he’s not much better off.

“Are you?”

“ ‘m not lollygaggin’. Just checking up on yah to give you some advice.”

The Lancaster makes its way to your hand as you join him under the damnable sun. “Really?”

He nods--slowly, mind you--with a smirk. Until last night you hadn’t known he _could_ twitch a lip, smirk, grin, or otherwise smile. “Professionals,” Sniper said, “should have standards.”

Your head is throbbing far too much to play guessing-games, so another one-word response it is: “Standards?”

“Yeah. Like being on the field when the match starts.” You open your mouth to inform him that he was just as sick as you when time was called, and is, in fact, standing here right now--but, pointedly, he taps the butt of his rifle twice in the dirt.

_He’s been out here since the match started. On the field._

_Asshole_.

But what passes your lips is an indistinct grumble.

Sniper wipes some sweat from his brow, a little grin irritatingly present on his face. “Oh--and one more thing.”

You press a hand to your temples and squeeze, but it does nothing. Your cheeks are burning. Of all the chastisement you expected, you didn’t consider any might come from your fellow hungover idiot--let alone come from your fellow _and_ successfully embarrass you. “What?”

“You really shouldn’t make such a fool of yourself.”

Your blood freezes. That voice isn’t--

 _Pain_ \--and then the orange grit of soil on your cheek, in your mouth, your hands--your hands, where’s your _gun?_

Cough; wheeze. Blink away the glare and the grime, there’s your pistol--

Spinning away with the kick of a patent-leather shoe.

 _Fuck_.

Blood clouds your vision as that damnable heel makes contact with your face, and the whole world is a bright, solid flash of blinding pain. Your arm won’t obey to wipe the blood clean, lying uselessly in the dirt. You recognize now that it’s where the pain first began--a knife under your shoulder to sever the tendons. Blood trickles over your lips. You spit.

“Asshole!”

A foot planted solidly on your back, even as you try to roll in the direction of the base. “ _Non, non_ ,” he says, too patient, too calm. Not smug, not amused--it sets a cold feeling in the pit of your stomach. “ _Fair_ ,” he says. “Revenge, I understand, _mademoiselle_ … but taking more than your due?”

You scream as the toe of his shoe sinks into the wound at your shoulder, and the spy does not speak again until he’s had his fill, and you’re panting against the blood and the sand and the dirt. You grit your teeth.

“I will admit I did not think you had it in you, girl. Near-decapitation. No, that’s not who you think yourself to be, is it?”

You gather all remaining strength into your undamaged arm; if you can just knock him off balance… One, two-- _crunch_. You screech against the metallic tang and grit on your lips as a fresh wave of blood streams from your now-broken nose, head crushed into the sand with your adversary’s weight.

“A military girl should have more discipline, even one dishonorably discharged.”

Your heart doesn’t have a chance to freeze, your mind no chance to panic at the implication that _he knows_ because your world is bright white again with a blow to your side, sun streaming now through your bloodied vision, light catching on the edge of a blade as it plunges through your other shoulder. How no one can hear your screams as they echo around the compound, you don’t know.

It occurs to you only now that your earpiece is lying on the shelf of your locker.

The best you can hope for a teammate’s timely respawn. There’s nothing to be done with arms that won’t move and blood seeping steadily into the ground.

“Better,” the spy says, so calm, so casual. None of the glee his medic showed, no wild excitement, not even the bloodlust you felt when dispatching this man days ago in the halls of your team’s base.

You fear it will take every last drop of your blood before he’s satisfied with his retribution.  

“Now.” He’s half-standing on your chest, you can feel it, but you can’t see more than white and crimson. “Your scout was the first to fall, and that gives us another…” You hear a click. “Seven and a half minutes, _mademoiselle_. All the time in the world, _non?_ ”

A groan escapes your bloody lips before your can pull it back.

The spy clicks his tongue. “Now, you Americans have a quaint little saying… ‘Don’t dish out what you can’t take.’ I do believe that applies here.”

Your next breath ends in a rattling wheeze when the blade sinks between ribs.

“Considering what you did to me, you should have no trouble with this.” And the flesh folds back together as the knife comes out.

Pain--you need--gone--gone the air is gone and you try again--catch, wheeze, whistle--no, no--

“How is it?”

Each breath seems to seize, stab, abort-- _not enough air_ and you’re drowning, drowning in the sun and the blood and you try to make a sound pass your lips, _please, please, please--_

“Nghk--” Gurgle, gasp and it stalls again, stabbing, drowning--

“You will have to speak up.”’

“ _K--ill me._ ”

You would beg if you were able.

The whisper of fabric beside your prone form can’t be heard over the rattle of your breath, but you can just make out a blue balaclava blocking the sunlight through your bleary eyes. A flutter of hope rises in your desperate chest.

“I would be inclined to fulfill such a plea, _cherie_ \--” His tongue lilts on his lips, too cold, too dry to mean mercy “--if you were not such a priority to your medic.” The sun blinds you again as he rises.

Your breath comes hard, fast, desperate, chokes-- _no air--please--_

“And _please do_ tell him so.”

Your chest is so heavy. You might be crying, but you’re not sure, eyes and cheeks and forehead sticky with blood, painful little gasps passing your lips as vision wavers, darkens, only the tiniest fraction of air reaching your lung, not enough as your mind grows fuzzy, sluggish, drowning brain and lungs and maybe you’ll die soon--

You feel more than hear the body drop at your side.

Distantly, so far away, you wonder who it is, hope it will be over no matter the color of this corpse.

“Specialist.”

You might flinch if your body would allow. But--then--a sluggish realization as your brain ticks backward--the French lilt is different, softer--

“I… wish I had been here sooner. This is beyond a medi-kit.” He stops, letting you process the words.

 _Please_.

“All that I can do is end it.”

 _Please, please, please_. A rattling wheeze is all that escapes.

And then all is dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who were just waiting for the rivalry with BLU Spy to return... congratulations. And I'll admit, it was rather based on a tidbit we got in the newest comic where Spy offhandedly comments to Sniper: "Some of us would have liked to torture him." Please do let me know how you think this went, if you have any particular feelings on it.


	30. What Everyone Has Against A MediKit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much once for being patient and sticking with me, and special thanks to Sov for beta-ing this chapter, and to diananock and kilgamesh for their help!
> 
> **Warning in this Chapter For: blood, graphic violence, death, injury, medical unpleasantness**

In respawn, squeeze eyes shut. Focus on breathing. Inhale, ignore the phantom twinge as lungs expand, try to forget the drowning pressure on your chest. Exhale. The next breath can’t come fast enough. You hold the air in your lungs, savor the relief, exhale, take a new breath.

 _Alive_.

You open your eyes, revel in the clear vision of the door and the dirt and the sky beyond.

 _Whole_.

You have to get to the battle, but the thought of leaving this space wraps an icy hand of terror around your heart. Grit your teeth. Draw your weapons, grip unsteady, fingers trembling. _It’s over_ , you tell yourself. _This life is brand new_.

The team will be missing their Specialist. Of course, you’ll probably have to explain where you were, that you did not actually spend the last--how long has it been? Ten minutes? Twenty?--being sick on the floor. Then again, you’re not sure if the truth is less embarrassing.

You stride to the door, slowly, each step solid, though all you want to do is _stay_ , curl up in the corner and nurse the terrified chill in your chest until it melts away.

A shadow wavers and solidifies just outside. You tense, halt mid-step. He wears red, but you find yourself baring your teeth. You are not a fool _._

The Spy spreads his hands, and moves no further. “I understand. Ask me a question, Specialist.”

A sigh hisses through gritted teeth. What could you ask that no one could simply dig up? That could not have been seen or overheard? So many things about you have been recorded, and… “Two nights ago,” you say, “Scout had an issue at dinner.”

The corner of his mouth sneaks upward in amusement. “He was angry at a situation similar to the one I just found myself in. The difference is, I was completely incapable of healing you.”

You feel your shoulders slump in relief--you’re in a brand-new body, but you feel exhausted. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“Think nothing of it.” He averts his gaze, adjusts leather gloves. “I would hope you’d have done the same.”

“Of course, Spy.”

“Mm.” He glances back toward the field. “Heavy needs support at the third point. Fetch your earpiece, and I’ll tail you there.”

You’re unlikely to forget that piece of equipment again. You fetch it and hurry out to the field where Spy still stands, shifting his weight anxiously, eyes everywhere.

“Go. I’ll follow.” He cloaks as you heft your shield and move for the corner. You want to thank him for offering to accompany you. You’d like to tell him you don’t need it.

But you do.

You really do, and you can’t find the words to admit it.

* * *

 It’s a straight shot from the corner of the storage shed to the third point. You click into the comm system, ignoring the turning of your stomach at the thought of the verbal abuse and rightful mockery you’re sure to face. You’re really not in the mood for it anymore.

“I see Heavy and Engineer on point three--is there any danger of sniper fire if I move in?”

[“Should be clear, Sheila. I’ve got eyes on you.”]

Even so, you make the run as fast as your boots can carry you, folding your shield down to be as streamlined as possible. Debris from an earlier scuffle is shuffled under your feet--splinters of old wood, bullet casings, shrapnel gleaming sharp on the sand.

Your chest stabs with phantom pain each time you draw a breath of hot, dusty air. You try to narrow your focus down into your boots, one-two, one-two, heels pressing into the dirt and sand, crunching, kicking up clouds.

CRACK.

_Fuck---_

You stumble, cover behind a stray crate. Paint flakes off the faded _Mann Co._ logo. Splinters catch on your coat. Gunshot. Well, of _course_ it was a gunshot; this is a battlefield. What it should _not_ have done was startle you into hiding. You lift your head, peek overtop the crate.

Empty sand. Abandoned sheds. Dry wood.

But the shot had been close, hadn’t it? There would be no need for cover otherwise, not when you’re _holding_ a _shield_ , now would there?

[“You’re clear to move now, Specialist.”]

A puff of relieved breath escapes your lips as you rise and repeat your running rhythm. “Thanks.” There _had_ been something, then. You don’t look like a frightened rabbit that once nearly ended up on the dinner table, forever flinching at nothing. That’s the last thing you need. Better to endure teasing at the hands of a hangover than admitting to…

You’d call it torture, but that might be too strong a word. And it was your own damn fault, anyway. Torture lasted longer, hurt more. The goal wasn’t death. What the BLU spy had done was… painful retaliation.

So you take the deepest breath of air you can, until your lungs are burning, full to bursting with effort, and release it in a slow hiss through your teeth. Because you can. Because every cell in your body leaps at each breath of ready oxygen.

You run for the point.

“Specialist!” Heavy waves an arm in greeting, hefting his minigun in one hand--for even the briefest of moments, it’s an impressive feat. Your joints twinge with sympathy.

You return his grin as you leap onto the platform. “What are we looking at?” You hope they launch into a discussion on tactics and the lay of the field. By the time they finish, you’ll be getting shot at, and no one will remember to ask where you’ve been.

“At least two in respawn,” says Engie, tightening a bolt with his wrench.

“Scout and Soldier,” Heavy adds.

“I’ll have the sentry finished up here by the time the point’s ours, and y’all can get a move on to finish the round up.”

 _Crack_.

[“Enemy sniper down.”]

“Make that three in respawn. I’d worry about the BLU Medic ‘n Heavy, but I’ve got a feelin’ they’re waiting for us out at the final point.”

It certainly seems like them. Where your pair seems to relish the charge, BLU enjoys…

Waiting. Blood. Screams where no one could hear. Ribbons and ribbons and ribbons running red flesh--

A large hand pressing on your shoulder. “Is very hot in sun,” rumbles Heavy.

You suck a sharp breath through your nose. “It is.” It is. There’s a glare on your head, sweat trickling down from your scalp, a burn on your cheeks. You avoid Heavy’s gaze, though you’re grateful. You just… can’t take the empathy you know you’ll find. You’re working. You can get a grip on your own mind.

If you can’t do something so simple, then what are you doing here, hm?

 _Dishonorable discharge_.

“Which of ours are in respawn?”

Engineer clicks his headset. “Sniper, team check?”

[“Eyes on you, Medic, Pyro--back from respawn--an’ Spook’s out there somewhere.”]

“Thank ya kindly.” He switches the set off. “We--”

_KRRRBSSSSS--_

“Getdown!”

\-- _BOOM!_

Your shield snaps to full just as you’re knocked off your feet. The ground trembles, sand scattered across the point, creeping into your uniform, grating on skin.

Your ears are ringing. You wish those telephone-bells weren’t so familiar now.

“I thought you said the Soldier was in respawn!” That’s what you want to say. Your mouth is moving. You think you’re saying it. But you can’t hear it, which means no one else can, either.

Damn, you hate explosions.

The ground shudders again, and you’re tempted to lie still, but you squint through the dust hovering in clouds over your position. Red light gleams on the particles, casting eerie columns through the destruction. There are two dark shapes approximately where you left your teammates. Under your hands, the ground is humming. The sentry? If you’re lucky. The teammate-shaped shadows aren’t moving, but you try not to dwell on that. It’s no good to lie here.

You push yourself slowly to your knees, shield first, trousers and boots scraping sand over metal.

There’s a blinding flash. Ringing, ringing, cotton in your ears. Somehow, you’ve tumbled further back, your shield half across your shoulder-blades, arm bent at an aching angle, face pricked with sand on sun-heated steel.

If muscles could groan, those in your arm would be protesting loudly as you shift your shoulder and elbow. Your arm moves, albeit slowly. You think you’re intact, though your face burns and your ears ring and a shooting pain races up your spine. You have all your limbs, and that’s a blessing.

But you need to move, you need to find some way to retaliate, now. Now, before the Soldier comes charging up with a bladed spade and a mind for disembowelment.

You’ve certainly had enough of being defenseless today, thank you very much.

Sand cuts into your cheek as you shift your head, try to ascertain your position. No one in sight. But--a machine--the sentry, so close! It appears to be trembling, perhaps an indication that it’s running after all, but even if that isn’t true, it would provide a little more cover, some distance…

You brace your arms on the ground and slide your body ahead. Buttons scratch on the point. You draw the Lancaster from its holster on your thigh, and you find you catch less on the ground with each shuffle. Where the Gyrojet has gone, you have no time to worry now.

The ringing in your ears gives the illusion of eerie quiet, muffled silence enveloping your head.

You wrap your body partway around the back of the sentry and look into the dissipating dust. The humming of the sentry reverberates through your whole body now. It’s comforting, even if the security is merely an illusion.

The shield is unwieldy here, and you consider shaking it off, but--no, not yet.. You fold the bottom up instead and clasp your Lancaster-Charles in both hands, pointing into slanted rays of sunlight, squinting at little more than dark shapes. They move slowly. You draw a sharp breath; the scent of gunpowder and copper coats your nose. You grit your teeth.

Sound filters back into your ears. A shuffling gait. A mechanical hum. Your own rasping breath, too loud between metal and kevlar.

Sunlight gleams on the double-barrel of a shotgun.

_BRRACK!_

You squeeze the trigger again.

_BRRACK!_

You must have hit something, you _must_ have, if only because the bullets are so damn _big_ \--

The barrel comes up, and you bury your face in the crook of your arm, squeeze again.

_BANG!_

_BRRACK!_

Your ears are ringing, but you can hardly hear it over the searing burn that flares along your back. You raise your eyes to see the Soldier raising that damnable trench shovel. The sun gleams on polished iron, arms raised, blue coat pulls across a barrel chest--suddenly ripped to ribbons. Red tears though blue, shredding coat, skin, bone. A mouth opens in a cry you cannot hear. Blood spatters like rain across sand and steel until the body can no more remain upright and crumples in a bloodied heap.

You draw a shuddering breath and let your head fall upon your shield arm, let your pistol clatter onto the point.

 _Fucking hell_.

“...so long. Specialist. Specialist?”

You lift your head, but the voice is coming from behind. You can hear the hum and the rattle of the sentry again.

A little huff of relief over your shoulder. “Thank God,” Engineer says, and you see his boots and then knees materialize beside you as he hunkers down, a white box in his hands. “I’ll get ya patched up right quick.”

“Thanks.” You’d really like a bottle of water.

“Can ya help me get your coat off?” You can hear a frown in his voice. “Or will I need to cut it off?”

Your brow furrows and you brace your elbows under your chest and push--to an onslaught of stabbing, burning needles coursing through your back. You grunt, hiss, drop onto the newly won point. “Cut it,” you hiss, clamping down on the involuntary heave of your stomach. It’ll be cooler without the coat, anyway. Between the steel under your stomach and the beating sun, you’re sweltering--apparently you haven’t lost enough blood to chill your veins just yet.

“Alright, just relax a minute. Keep an eye out front.”

You wish you didn’t have to, but you prop your head up and look out across the field. Heavy is nowhere to be seen, which likely means he’s on his way through respawn. There isn’t the slightest breeze to cut the stifling heat or stir a single grain of sand. The field is still, eerily so, like a color photograph left in the sun, a little too hazy, a little too yellow.

Your jaw clenches when you hear the rip of fabric, feel your coat peeled away in two, pushed aside to dangle from each arm. You imagine you can feel stray fibers pulling on ragged skin, but that seems unlikely.

“Now, this is gonna sting…”

Before you can ask what, exactly, is going to sting, you’re hissing and clutching at the point with both hands, alcohol or iodine pouring across your back, soaking into the remains of your coat and shirt.

“Now I’ve gotta dig some of this buckshot outta here, so…” He passes you his bandana, red and damp with what is probably sweat. “You, uh, may wanna bite down on that.”

You really hope it isn’t sweat. “Respawn will clean it up for you,” you argue. Really, is there anything wrong with slapping a bandage on it when, in all likelihood, you’ll be dead in the next ten minutes, anyway?

“I’d like ya to be able to function until then, ma’am. And if Medic catches up before you die, I don’t think having half a pound of metal sealed into your back for the rest of the match is a good idea. Now--I’ll do my darnedest to be quick.”

Whatever smart comment might have come to your lips is gone with the handkerchief you’ve stuffed into your mouth to muffle a reflexive scream. Holy hell, shit, and damn, you wish Medic was here. Fuck. If there’s one thing you can say about Engie, it’s that he finds what he is looking for and moves on quickly, his touch precise. But you can’t say he’s in any way _delicate_.

Your jaw clamps down on the bitter bandana. Poke, wiggle, yank, poke, wiggle, yank through the flesh of your back, stinging and burning and bleeding.You squeeze your eyes shut and wonder if maybe Engineer would be gentler with a circuit board. Fuck, if there was ever a time the doctor to show up with his medigun--

“Done.”

You huff a muffled sigh of relief.

“Now…” More alcohol splashes across your back, and your forehead hits the point with a solid thump, imprinting several grains of sand across your brow. “...sorry. If ya can make it to your knees, I’ll wrap you up and you can be on your way.”

You spit the hanky out. It had definitely been covered in sweat. “Thanks.” Slowly, you brace your arms, ignore the sharp pull and burn across your back, and push yourself to your knees. You chance a glance back at Engineer, but he’s only beginning to unravel the bandages.

“Pull your shirt up a little, an’ arms out,” he says.

You do your best, arms slouching even as you grit your teeth to force down the pain, and Engie doesn’t complain, only pushes bloody material up and aside where it falls too low, and winds the bandage around your torso. It brings a steady, creeping burn, bright and tingling. Every too-harsh tug stabs reflexive nausea through your stomach. You squeeze your eyes shut against it. The sun burns through your eyelids, turning your little world red.

But this is no different from the way your waking world is painted now, this red. So many things… scarlet, crimson, burgundy. Blood, yours--theirs. Power is red. Victory. _Friends_ are red. A still-beating heart. And pain--pain is red. _This_ pain as it spikes through muscles, skin, and sinew with each turn of calloused hands. You hiss through your teeth and crack an eye open to check his progress.

Only two wraps. You’re a whole mess of pain that keeps getting tighter and the bandages haven’t even covered your breasts.

You never would have thought that you’ve been spoiled by a doctor, and _certainly_ not one that takes obvious, gleeful delight in his work. But you have. You have been spoiled by the medic and his quick-fix marvels.

Fuck, you don’t even feel weird about wishing for a physician undoubtedly out of his mind. You just want the pain to _stop_.

But it won’t, and it doesn’t, not even when Engineer ties off the bandage and gently pulls your ragged shirts down over the wrapped wound.

“Thanks.” You keep your breaths shallow to avoid pulling the bandages tighter across the mess of your back. It doesn’t help.

You’ll probably never consider using a medikit again. No medigun? No deal. Slight nausea and tingling is a step up from… this. Well--provided death isn’t dealt with seizing, stabbing, blood free-flowing, splutter stop--stop--

You shut your eyes, open them again. Breathe. Hot pain across your shoulders, gone from your chest.

The engineer is still speaking. Perhaps he has not noticed. “...but we’ll be alright.” He squeezes your forearm. “Now, you get on to the next point. Medic might be around by the time ya get there. I’ve got this position covered.”

“Sure,” you say when you can find your tongue. “Thanks again.”

He nods, tips the brim of that yellow hardhat in a way that would be endearing if you could find a way to focus on something besides the throbbing pain that echoes every beat of your heart. “Be careful, now.” He bends down to scoop up your fallen gear, and you might be more grateful for that than the bandages.

The Lancaster goes into its holster first, more slowly than you care to admit, and then you hesitate, hands hovering over the shield and Gyrojet. You’re not sure you can even lift your shield without tearing whatever sorry clots your body is trying to manufacture. So, you take it first, in both hands. Stifle a grunt. What normally feels so light is clawing angry fingernails from your shoulders to your spine. It goes on your belt, too, and Engie, bless him, does not comment.

The last thing in your hands is the Gyrojet pistol, and that works fine for you. Maintain distance, fuck a couple of BLU bastards over on the way to the next point, and hopefully catch up to Medic on the way. Good plan. Fine plan. ... _okay_ plan.

It’s either this or wallow in regret over the past twelve hours.

Fuck it--you can manage both.


	31. How Utterly Thou Hast Murdered Thyself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my patient readers, and most especially to my editor, Shiqq, and to my beta-readers kilgamesh and diananock! My work wouldn't be nearly so well-polished without them. 
> 
>   **WARNING in this chapter for: blood, death, graphic violence, high levels of self-loathing, more literary references than you asked for**

Today, staring down your double is not so much like looking into a mirror as it is staring at your very own William Wilson*, a Dr. Jekyll, all-infuriating in gentle perfectness.

A backward reflection, all in blue, coat neatly buttoned, collar flat, uniform crisply ironed, every hair in impeccable place, her pistol gleaming, shield black as the desert night. Her grin is as polished as her boots.

But you--? Oh, you can only imagine the sight. The remains of your shirt hanging in bloody tatters from your back, face striped with sandy burns, pistol weighing your hand down at your waist, boots scuffed and trousers dusty-worn. Ragged and blood-soaked, you must look like you crawled out of the Pit to bring tidings of Hell.

Her brows arch into a familiar look of surprise. “Shit.” At least, for all her pristine appearance, she’s no more loquacious than you.  

You simply fire your gun.

Alas, either she is too quick or your aching arms are too slow, taking aim just a little too obviously before pulling the trigger. Her shield is up in time to absorb the hissing bullet.

“Let me put you--”

You know before she finishes the statement, what she’s going to say. You know she’s going to shoot you and have done with it as soon as she finishes. It’s what you would do. It is what you tried to do. For a moment, you entertain the idea that maybe, somehow, she _is_ you, whether through some science fiction miracle or explanation beyond your imagination. Does it matter? It does--oh--it _does_ . For if she is so, _how dare she?_ How _dare_ she leave her mother at home and send half a paycheck that does nothing if she isn’t alive when it arrives. She plays at living, pretends there’s nothing wrong.

You know before she finishes what she’s going to do.

“--out of your misery.”

So you grab her gun and it fires harmlessly into the air, savor the surprised intake of her breath just before your fist connects with her jaw. She splutters, draws her shield up. Her pistol clatters to the ground, and you strike again. As the blood on your hands smears across her skin. You savor that, too.

The shield comes up a second time, and you know you can’t take it down--so you catch her boot with yours and tumble down atop the doppelganger, pinning her arm and the shield against her body. Her free hand claws at your elbow, tangling fingers in your dusty sleeve, but you bring your fist down on her face.

You remember well how it feels to be trapped under the one thing that keeps you safe. The BLU Specialist struggles and writhes, but like a turtle stuck on its back, she finds no purchase. She abandons your sleeve and forces her hand up to scratch at your neck. You seize the wrist with one hand and break her nose with the other.

She’s as much a mess as you are, now.

All the while, she has been swearing, screaming, spitting. But you take little notice as the edges of your vision flicker and darken. Adrenaline sings through your veins, takes the edge off the burn in your back, and the _blood_ , so much _blood_ slips through your fingers, turns your stomach with every copper-laced breath, but you can’t stop now.

Her arm twists out of your grip and braces on the ground and you have to throw yourself forward to keep from losing your balance, forehead landing on her sticky cheek. Fingers dig into your back and you scream. Bandages are no protection against her blunt nails, which seem to find each hole and gash and bring new blood bubbling to the surface.

Your hands fist in the sand and flaking soil, pushing you upright enough to drive your elbow into the side of her head. Her arm drops, eyelids fluttering. Your injuries _burn_ where she sought your weakness. You want to get up and finish this with the Lancaster. You’re not sure how long she will be stunned, not sure if she’ll regroup the instant your weight is gone from her chest.

But you’re feeling weak again. You don’t have much choice; you search your thigh for the Lancaster.

A blow to your chin snaps your jaw shut, teeth cracking, splitting pain up through your skull.

“Get the _hell_ off me!”

Ah, words from bruised and bloody lips.

She moves to strike you again, but you reach across, barely block her hand with the arm not groping for your gun.

You’re just off balance enough to be thrown to one side, tumble onto the sand, hiss at the hot ground on your back, the slanting rays of sunlight in your face--but only for a moment before her shadow falls upon you.

_Crack._

You gasp through your mouth--air, air--your nose is useless now and she should have had time to grab her gun and finish this, but you need to breathe, need breath, hot and dry, dust coating your throat--

Your nose cracks again.

Warm. Gentle.

 _Red_.

The BLU’s bloody, swollen snarl drops slack, and your lips curl into a shameless grin.

One solid blow of your open hand under the chin sends her reeling back, and it feels _good_ \--oh, _Lord_ , so good! The plane of your back is strong and solid again, so free of pain that you’re almost shocked, revelling in the play of muscles you’d nearly forgotten could work with such ease as you fall upon your double again. This time, as she struggles to find her weapon, you yank her up in one hand by her mussed collar and, in the moment before she rights her head, drive your open hand down on her throat. Tissue shudders, gives, and her breath leaves in a whistling wheeze. You drop her, watch as she folds and writhes in panic on the ground.

Blood and orange dirt cake her uniform. Boots, scuffed, lash out blindly. Her face no longer bears resemblance to yours,swelling blue and glistening scarlet.

Your hand finds the Lancaster-Charles at your thigh, takes aim at her chest, and fires without another look. She will have stopped moving, chest rent open, bare to the sky, but you don’t need to see it. Instead, your eyes trace the translucent energy that hums along your skin back to its source.

“Medic,” you say.

But he stares. He stares like he’s been doing it a long time. He stares like he has no intention of doing anything else.

“Thank you,” you say.

You strap the Lancaster into its holster and recall that, though healed, you must look a fright. Your shirtsleeves hang loose around your wrists, and between blood-soaked bandages and ragged clothes, you must still seem like you clawed your way through Satan's gates. Something dribbles past your lips and you wipe it on the back of your hand.

Oh. The blood from your nose is still there and still wet. You try to clean up the rest on your sleeve. Nothing wrong with more red on red.

Medic blinks at last. “I had heard you needed healing, but it seems you were doing quite well.”  

“Something like that.” You catch his gaze behind the spectacles and find it sharp. The ice-blue unsettles your stomach.

He chuckles, but it seems hoarse. The curve of his throat contracts tightly as he swallows. “Vell, I won’t say my intercession wasn’t… timely.”

You bend to retrieve the Gyrojet you’re reasonably sure belongs to you. “I can’t argue that.” You’re rather relieved to have broken eye contact, and so you purposefully fix your gaze just above this time to find the single, unkempt curl that adorns his brow.

“I’m rather close to having enough energy for über… zhe damage was somewhat extensive.” His gloved hand plays along the medigun, perhaps thoughtfully. “Shall we continue, Specialist?”

You unbuckle the shield from your belt with a nod. Before they start wondering where you’ve gone again. “Yes. Final point?”

“ _Jawohl_.”  

You steal one final, furtive, glance ( _In me didst thou exist…_ ) at where you left your double, ( _…and, in my death, see by this image--_ ) but all that there lies is a rusty stain on disturbed soil.***

* * *

Medic is still at your side when the last bell rings to announce victory, and cackles right along with your breathless whoop that rises in response to Pyro’s muffled shouts and Demoman’s wild cries of joy. The point flashes red behind you, and your heart sounds a triumphant rhythm.

[ _Victory! Until tomorrow._ ]

It is the call that returns you to the base, and you don’t disobey it, Pyro skipping ahead while you holster your weapons. You roll your shoulders as you walk, already daydreaming about a nice, hot shower, when you hear--music? The notes are distantly familiar and you turn your head for the source of what you realize now is a proud hum.

It’s Medic.

There’s a very distinct little roll to each of his steps, and he’s humming as though he either does not know he’s doing it, or knows and does not care if anyone hears. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him so happy outside of surgery or battle--not even under the same circumstances as these. There’s a small smile gracing his lips that seems… content. It’s a smile, not a grin--not manic or mad or biting. It is… pleasant.

When someone claps you on the shoulder, you almost trip over your own feet. “Not a bad day for a slow start, eh, lass?” Demoman asks, flanking you.

You hope he didn’t notice your stumble and try to scrape together enough dignity to reply. “I won’t say no to a victory,” you manage.

There’s a muffled grunt of agreement, and now Pyro has turned, walking backward in their heavy boots, waving a simple “yes” with their fist.

“Don’t know a one who will,” Demo says with a chuckle.

“Not willingly,” Medic agrees.

“TODAY IS A GOOD DAY!” Soldier declares, and though you take a quick look around the scorched and bloodied area, you have no idea where he could be, nor any idea how he could have overheard the conversation.

You chance a glance at Medic again, but of course he’s stopped humming, and while he still seems reasonably content, that little smile is gone, too. Instead, a little crease sits between his brows as though he’s already moved on to thinking about his next experiment.

You _really_ hope it’s nothing to do with a post-battle surgery because you’re not sure you can take it. You’re almost fresh from respawn--rushing back to the point with the doctor after a minor setback involving a rocket--but all you want to do is take a hot shower and curl up on your bed for a quick nap before dinner. Your hangover might be gone, but there’s a new, gentle throb in the back of your skull, as the adrenaline subsides, that has nothing to do with alcohol nor the nasty tumble you took scrapping with the BLU scout just a few minutes ago.

“Ah, it’s a fine day!” Demo pushes a hip flask in your hand, and you immediately push it back. He laughs--“Lost the appetite, Specialist?”--and takes another swig.

“You could say that.” Your hand unconsciously rubs your temple and you brace yourself for Medic’s smart comment.

It doesn’t come. He looks at you, catches your gaze, looks away just as quickly.

You’re absolutely baffled.

But Demoman just trucks along, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “I don’t blame you, lass! Next time, next time we’ll do it on a Saturday, an’ spread the drinkin’ out the whole day--no better way to blow off some steam, let me tell ye! An’ it’s the one way to get Sniper to utter more’n four words together, you know.”

“Maybe not _this_ Saturday?”

That earns you another peal of raucous laughter. “As ye say, as ye say!”

In the locker room, you shuffle off your coat and gear as quickly as possible, knowing full well that you won’t get to the showers first, but you might at least get to read a little in the quiet of your room beforehand. That is, if you’re quick enough to avoid Medic’s prodding. The Lancaster, as always, stays with you to be stored under your already lumpy pillow, so as you lock your Gyrojet and shield away, you’re ready to finish the day. But just as you sling your coat over one shoulder to head in--

“Specialist.”

And you had nearly thought you would escape the infirmary. You turn, resigned, to face him. “Yes, Medic?”

But he isn’t really looking at you. He’s hanging the bonesaw and that wicked syringe-gun in his locker. “How do you feel about lentils?”

 _What?_ You blink, and you can feel your brows furrow. _Lentils_. “I--like them fine?”

“Good,” he says, crisply.

You wet your lips, weighing the options and wondering if you ought to ask. “Why?” Honestly, what else are you supposed to do? Let a lentil non-sequitur just fly by?

Medic looks up from his task. “To know whether you’ll be eating or not, of course.”

“Oh.” That would make sense, you suppose, if he’s concerned about portions. “Well. Yes--yes, I’ll definitely be having dinner--”

“I don’t like ‘em, and I have to eat anyway!” gripes Scout from the corner.

The doctor doesn’t even turn to acknowledge him. “Make yourself a peanut-butter sandwich.”

“Heavy used all the bread!”

“Go to zhe grocery market and save me the trouble.” Medic shuts his locker with a click.

Scout throws his arms in the air, and you stifle a chuckle at the display. “ _C’mon_ , doc! Can’t ya just make some pasta?”

“ _Nein!_ ” He whisks a gloved hand in your direction. “Dinner is at seven, thank you.”

You fight and lose the battle not to roll your eyes as you go.

 

* * *

 *And if you’re making such an obscure reference**, you must have lost more blood than you thought.  
**The reference in question is to Edgar Allan Poe’s short story William Wilson, wherein the title character’s doppelganger is a better person than he.  
*** “In me didst thou exist, and, in my death, see by this image, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself.” --Edgar Allan Poe, William Wilson

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:** _Jawohl_ \- yes, respectful and emphatic, especially in a military context (i.e. “yes, sir”)
> 
>  **The More You (May Not Want to) Know:** It only takes approximately 11lbs of pressure to crush the trachea…which is about as much pressure as it takes to crush a soda can. Using a “knife hand” technique as Spesh demonstrates here (striking with the edge of the hand to prevent breaking your own bones), it can be done. Please don’t try this at home. Or anywhere, really. In my research, however I also learned that by learning to hold air in your esophagus, you can withstand more pressure, like a hose full of water that won’t bend. I’m less sure of how legit that bit of information is, but it does seem to make sense.
> 
> I’ve been doing a lot of reading and looking at videos for bare-knuckle boxing techniques, and while you WOULD NOT want to kill or damage your opponent so severely in a bout, the Specialist would know how, particularly after military training.


	32. The Table Tilts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay, but I daresay this chapter is rather worth it. ;) 
> 
> Special thanks, as ever, to diananock and kilgamesh, my betas, and to my editor, Shiqq!
> 
> Aaand, I don't think we actually have any content warnings for this chapter, so, without further ado....

You had forgotten about the mess you left half-swept into a corner this morning, but there it is, amber shards and scattered white pills. You suppose you ought to finish what you started or risk cutting your feet when you undoubtedly forget again in the next hour.

With a sigh, you sling your coat across the rickety chair and unbutton your undershirt, which follows in a sweaty, wrinkled heap. From the wastebasket, you pull a couple discarded, half written letters and smooth them out, deliberately not looking at the words. Even so, scattered phrases mock you in spotty ink: “wish I could call,” “hope you’re doing well,” and worst, “I’m sorry”--among them. Picking through the shards to salvage what pills you can is a welcome distraction from the weight that settles in your chest. It takes a great deal of focus not to slice your fingers or get any pieces stuck to your skin--after all, the med-bay is not the place you want to go after successfully avoiding it for the night, even for tweezers and a band-aid. What pills you can recover are shoved in the top drawer of your bedside table. The glass and all the rest are swept up in the papers and dumped in the wastebasket.

At last, you throw yourself on the bed, ignoring the pathetic creak of the mattress. Despite being healed not long ago, weariness settles into your bones. _Monte Cristo_ is an arm’s reach from your position, but your eyes are suddenly so, so heavy. Without even lifting the book, you know what happens next--

Edmond Dantes has completed his rebirth as the mysterious Count of Monte Cristo--a man fabulously wealthy, full of charity, a man almost inhuman in appearance and manner, wit and strength. A man who has all that a mortal could desire but cannot escape his thoughts of pain and mortality, suffering and vengeance.

So difficult to let go. If you could find some way to burn the images of creased skin--sickly pale like it’s faded into the bleached white of every crisp sheet and corridor--and blood on tile, rusty-brown and flaking… You bury your face in the crook of your elbow. You sink your teeth into your skin until the pain lets you breathe deeply, focus past that mire of melancholy.  

If you could let go, maybe you’d be stationed on a ship right now instead of playing mercenary. Your stomach flutters. Well--perhaps you’re not so disappointed in your situation as you should be. It’s selfish, but why wouldn’t you be happier this way? The Navy was all too eager to throw you out on your ass at the first sign of trouble. But Miss Pauling, she _knew,_ and she wanted you here anyway. Medic, he _saw_ and offered to help. Maybe he wasn’t a doctor, not really, but he’d helped you more than any certified asshole you’d ever seen. He’s a bastard, and he’s off his rocker, sure, but… he never tried to tell you that _you_ are.

You wonder what Medic is cooking. More than that, you wonder if he looks as much a mad scientist while tossing vegetables into a pot as he does filling a syringe or drawing his bonesaw across an enemy’s throat. It’s very hard to imagine him slicing vegetables faster than flesh without that manic grin. You’re tempted to go down to the mess and see for yourself, but even this too-firm mattress is far more appealing than standing under your own power right now.

The sun through the window is warm on your bare back, making the room unfathomably comfortable. You’ll just have to content yourself only speculating what the doctor must look like in the kitchen. Perhaps he does seem perfectly ordinary, much the way he did after battle today, humming and almost content. You wish you’d had the time to figure out what song it was. The tune seemed naggingly familiar.

* * *

You’re awake before realizing you even fell asleep. The clock reads 6:30--just enough time to commandeer the showers before dinner. You sit up, straps tightening around your thigh, and frown. Apparently, you neglected to remove the Lancaster before settling in for a nap, and now you must decide whether to just leave it on or tuck it under your pillow for tomorrow. Would anyone notice if you wore your gun to dinner? Was an attack particularly likely between now and bedtime?

Yes, someone would probably notice, and yes, someone (Scout) would probably say something. No, attacks outside working hours don’t seem to be the norm. In any case, you’d really just rather avoid commentary on what will likely be termed paranoia. With the… stress reaction, the shell-shock, Medic hasn’t ordered any restrictions, but you’d rather not push your luck.

Besides, you’ve been doing very well, if one pointedly ignores the thing that definitely didn’t happen on the field first thing today and _certainly_ wasn’t remotely related to an enemy spy.

You unbuckle the holster and slide the pistol under your pillow before tucking the leather straps into the armoire. From there, you select some jeans and a button-down, a clean undershirt and underwear. You press these items to your bare chest before realizing you ought to at least pull the dirty shirt over your shoulders for the trip to the showers.

It ended up not mattering, as you met no one on your way. Still, you know that if you’d gone without, you would have given half the base an eyeful. That’s just the way things work.

Of course, one person on this base has already seen it--in a purely professional context. So, really, it’s not like he nor anyone else has actually seen anything. You’ve… really never had to worry about interacting with your doctor anywhere besides the office or hospital. Never actually thought about having to take meals with someone who has not only seen you with most of your clothes off, but has seen you with a great deal of your _skin_ off.

And _that_ train of thought can stop right where it is because you need to board a different one. One... not so goddamn weird.

Shower. That’s safe. Hot water eases the leftover tension from your back, perks up sleep-slowed muscles. The air still smells like a commingled mixture of at least four kinds of soap and cologne, the steam making it all feel like an extraordinarily clean sauna… as long as one doesn’t inspect the floor for the countless grains of sand scattered around the drains. Still, it’s not at all unpleasant. After all, it doesn’t smell like sweaty, bloody men anymore.

When you suppose twenty minutes have gone by, you reluctantly turn off the water and dry off, dress yourself fairly neatly, comb your fingers through your damp hair. From here, you return to your room to drop off the dirty clothes in a half-full hamper, and head back toward the mess hall. The smell, even before you put your hand on the door, is brilliant--warm and inviting, buttery and savory. It’s homely and enticing all at once, and your stomach suddenly realizes how very _empty_ it is. Eagerly, you push the door.

You stop immediately in the doorframe, heedless of the creak of hinges as it closes behind you.

Somehow, when you had tried to picture Medic being _domestic_ , you still imagined him in full field doctor regalia, coat buttoned and belted. _Somehow_ , it had never occurred to you that he might actually take it off.

But there he is, dishing up a plate with his shirtsleeves rolled up, just bare hands and forearms. The plate settles into Pyro’s very much gloved hand, but you can’t stop staring at the well-fitted vest and shirt across Medic’s back, at the pull of muscle under the skin of his arms.

Honestly, you act like you’ve never seen a man before.

You tell yourself you’d do the same thing if Pyro showed up without a fire-suit, or Spy without his mask, or--

“Mrmrrmph.”

Medic glances over his shoulder and relinquishes the plate into Pyro’s full custody. “Oh--Specialist.”

You shift your gaze quickly to the table. No one there. “Am I early?”

“Not very--as you can see, everything is nearly ready.” He returns his attention to the stove, to the assorted pots and pans there.

Your ears tune into an energetic pop and sizzle. Something, you realize now, is frying. There’s an empty space left on Pyro’s plate--not that you’d paid attention until now. The rest is covered in what could be rice and--yes--lentils. But Pyro isn’t paying the slightest attention to what Medic is finishing on the stove; you get the stomach-turning feeling the empty eyes of that gas mask are staring at you.

“Hey, Pyro,” you say.

“Mrrph!” At least the muffled voice seems cheerful. You’d hate to think you were being rude by not greeting them when you came in. You had just been a little flabbergasted--understandably so, of course.

Medic scoops two flat, roundish cakes onto Pyro’s plate. They smell amazing, each a lovely golden-brown. “Looks good,” you offer.

“Mrmrumr mrrmrph!” Their free fist is shaking a simple ‘yes,’ but their head is tilted, still staring.

You feel like you should say something, but you have no idea what.

Fortunately, Medic speaks first, before a ridiculous half-sentence spills out of your mouth. “Of course it’s good!” He returns to the sizzling pan, scooping more cakes onto a platter at his elbow. “You’ll like it better once you’ve tasted it.” He pauses to stir a pot. “Pyro, are you sure you don’t want Scout’s portion?”

They shake their head. “Mr mrgmrr.”

“Vell,” he says with a glance, “be sure to come back if you change your mind.”

Pyro flashes an ‘okay’ with one hand, and, black, empty lenses never leaving your eyes, gives you a thumbs-up before exiting, steaming plate in hand.

You have no idea what you’ve done to get a thumbs-up or what it could mean or why it might be used as a goodbye, but you gave a smile in response and managed an “enjoy dinner” and that’s what really counts.

And now, you’re standing just inside the mess hall, alone with Medic under circumstances that are definitely not medical. You have no idea what to say.

Nervously, your hand rakes through damp hair. Your eyes flash to the table. It’s not just empty--it’s unset. “Can I help?” tumbles out of your mouth before you even finish processing.

Good manners--good manners. You can practically hear your mother saying that good manners can fix everything.

“No.” The doctor doesn’t even turn from his work, and you immediately deflate. You’re confused. You’re irritated.

“I can get the dishes out,” you insist. “It isn’t any trouble to--”

“I know.”

Then what the hell? “Medic, really--”

He waves a flippant hand in your direction, dishing more cakes onto the platter and covering it with a large bowl. “Just get yourself a drink and have a seat; I’ll take care of it in a moment.”

You debate marching to the cupboard and setting the table anyway. He hasn’t even looked in your direction since acknowledging your presence. Gently insisting that he’d like to do the work is one thing, tossing your offer to the side with simple “no,” is quite another. You stop the trek you’ve started and redirect yourself to the refrigerator. Well, if he wants to do all the work himself, that’s his business, you suppose.

The heavy door opens with a creak. The selection is quite the same--water, shitty beer, eye-wateringly sweet tea--and you hope your paycheck comes soon so you can throw some good lager and bourbon in here. You wrap your hand around a bottle of water and take a seat close to the end of the table. No sooner do you crack open the bottle than the sizzling starts to die down and you hear the clink of porcelain in its wake. You bring the water to your lips and try to quash the thought that, conversationally, Medic is much better in the operating room. Friendlier, anyway. Which is saying a lot, considering how much of a bastard he is even doing what he likes best.

And then, the covered plate of cakes is set in the center of the table, followed by two pots, each on their own trivet. You try to ignore the play of muscles as he sets each cast-iron container but his cuffs are rolled to the elbow, and for some reason that makes it as fascinating as if you’d never even thought he _had_ arms under that coat. You take another drink of water so he doesn’t notice how rude you’re being.

“What are we having?” you ask when he disappears behind you.

For a moment, you wonder if he didn’t hear--and then you feel him at the back of your chair. You can’t help but tense at the sudden closeness as he passes a plate around in front of you, close enough to see the veins, blue and purple, under the skin of his wrist and in his hand. You can’t move. “ _Schwäbische Linsen mit Spätzle_ ,” he says; you can feel his breath stir your hair (you, yourself, are not breathing), a little chill prickling over your damp scalp, _“und Latkes_.” The tension leaves you all at once and air rushes in when he moves to the next spot and sets another dish. “It’s… Swabian-style lentils over a pasta--er--dumplings-- _Spätzle_ \--vith potato pancakes.”

He continues around the table, setting each plate. You probably overreacted slightly at his being so close--something to do with coming off the battlefield not long ago, you’re sure. Now he’s at your other side, setting the place at the end of the table, looking at you expectantly through his spectacles. Right--you’re having a conversation.

“That sounds really fantastic.” Your mouth is on auto-pilot. You should say something else. “It’s something you ate at home?”

Medic’s face relaxes into what might be nostalgia. Nostalgia--or satisfaction at your polite compliment. “Oh, _ja_ \--we vere very near to Swabia, and even if my grandparents were not natives of it, this sort of food was very common.” He bustles back to the counter, and you can hear the ring of silverware. “Latkes, I learned from my father--these were always around for holidays and zhings.”

In all honesty, you hadn’t expected him to tell you so much. Even saying that he lived _near_ Swabia feels like a huge amount of information--not that you have a good idea where Swabia is, nor what’s around it. Knowing he had grandparents and a father he grew up around makes him seem a lot less like a mad mercenary doctor and more… ordinary. As he moves around the table again, setting a knife on one side of each plate and two forks on the other, shirtsleeves rolled up and medical equipment nowhere to be seen, it’s almost difficult to imagine that this is the man who--just today--spilled a scout’s intestines on the hot, desert sands, and laughed freely, mingling scarlet blood and orange soil in a syrupy dance. You frown.

Medic leans over your chair again to set your utensils. You can smell his cologne even through the savory scent of supper, something spicy and dark like--

“Hey, Doc--is dinner about ready? I’m wastin’ away here!”

You can practically hear Medic roll his eyes as he steps back just as casually as if he were nothing more than a waiter who did this every day, leaning into personal space to set a damn table you already offered to set. “You don’t even like lentils! You could have made yourself something else at any time.”

You turn your head to see Scout swaggering between you and Medic to his usual seat, followed right after by Engineer and Demoman. “Yeah, but it looks like you’ve got other stuff here--”

Medic slaps the boy’s questing hand away from one of the lids. “ _Nein!_ Sit down!”

“All right, all right, geez,” he grumbles, rubbing his hand and taking a seat. He does a good job of ignoring the pointed chuckles from the other side of the table.

Next through the door is Heavy, who boisterously compliments the smell of the doctor’s cooking, to which the man in question preens. And then Spy, gliding in with an unlit cigarette between his lips and a bottle of wine in his hand that he does not offer to share, and Soldier--punctual to the second, you suspect--and finally, Sniper. As Medic finishes tidying up the stove, Demo offers to get drinks, and you politely decline, with plenty of water still left in the bottle.

The murmur of conversation that begins is pleasant, and you let it wash over you for a minute, not even really realizing that no one has tried to touch the food since Scout was admonished--until Medic is at your shoulder again _serving_ you.

You try not to let your mouth hang open too long.

First is the _Spätzle_ \--what you recognize as the sort of rice-shaped pasta from Pyro’s plate. Medic goes around the table and places this first. Then, a rich mixture of lentils in a dark sauce, over the noodles, and when Scout opens his mouth to protest, the doctor utters a sharp “you eat it right, or not at all.” Last is a helping of two latkes on each plate, still leaving a pile of several more on the platter. And just before you take your first bite--

You realize Medic is sitting across from you tonight. And he appears to be waiting to gauge your reaction. You suppose it’s because you’re the only one who hasn’t eaten his cooking before, and the doctor is nothing if not prideful. So, you take a bite of the main course and try not to feel terribly scrutinized.

It’s brilliant. Savory, with just a hint of sweet earthiness from the lentils, tart, creamy and filling. “Medic, this is fantastic.”

He grins, all sharp edges and glee that could turn a stomach--and now you can line up the man on the field with the one across the table. “ _Danke_.” He takes a forkful of his own, seems to study it with pride. “I rather think so.”

Well, at least his modesty is consistent.

There’s a range of assent mixed with rolling eyes and dry chuckles across the table as the rest tuck in with no less gusto--save for Scout, studiously picking around the lentils to eat any _Spätzle_ that escaped the flood of actual nutrition.

Conversation gradually picks up and ebbs and flows like normal, turning from the day’s battle to what the weekend might bring, and then--

“Ensign, I haven’t seen you out on the courses lately,” says Soldier, helping himself to another of the latkes (which are also quite brilliant).

Oh, boy. You run up and down the field every day. You fight. You die. You run some more. There’s really no reason to go out and run an obstacle course afterward. “We get a lot of exercise on the field,” you say, evenly.

“That may be true, but we must always stay in tip-top shape, and that means PT--PT for everyone!” He eats half the cake in one chomp.

“Soldier…” You finish your water. “...isn’t the point of PT to stay in shape when you’re _not_ in combat?”

He nods, helmet bouncing. “And we are not currently in combat, ensign!”

Indeed. You bite back a sigh and try a change of subject instead. “Soldier, you keep calling me ‘ensign.’”

“Because you’re a squid.”

You can’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, and you call everyone else ‘private’--were you in the army?”

“Uhhh--” Scout sends a glance between you and Soldier.

“In the army? _In the army?_ ”

Oh, shit. You begin backpedalling as fast as humanly possible. “Er--the Marines?”

“Here we go,” mumbles Scout.

“I WILL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT I APPLIED FOR EVERY BRANCH OF THE UNITED STATES MILITARY! ARMY! NAVY! MARINES! AIR FORCE! EVEN THE NATIONAL GUARD! AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED, ENSIGN?”

Your mouth moves but nothing comes out because, really, you don’t want to even hazard a guess. You _might_ suppose that he was rejected by all of them, but even that feels unlikely as he doesn’t seem angry or embarrassed or even ashamed.

“I WAS TURNED AWAY FROM EVERY SINGLE ONE.”

Oh. You should offer your… sympathy?

“AND IT WAS THEN I REALIZED: IT IS NOT UNCLE SAM’S RUBBER STAMP THAT MAKES YOU A SOLDIER! HAVING THE SOUL OF A WARRIOR MAKES YOU A SOLDIER. IT IS YOUR WILLINGNESS TO FIGHT!” He thumps his chest. “Those rejections made me realize I already _was_ a Soldier! So--I shipped myself off to the European theater AND KILLED NAZIS.” Soldier thumped a fist on the table. “AND I HAVE BEEN GRATEFUL TO HIM EVER SINCE!”

Your brow furrows. “To… Uncle Sam?”

“TO UNCLE SAM!” He raises his glass in a toast that you belatedly, bewilderedly, meet with your own.

As Soldier downs his glass, you find your head spinning just a little. The War ended… twenty-four years ago-- _when you were born_. If what he said is true, Soldier would have been at least eighteen in 1943, making him…

_Soldier would have to be at least forty-two years old._

_What._

The realization must be showing on your face, because Spy rests a gloved hand on your shoulder, and when you meet his gaze, rolls his eyes. You hope that means there’s some logical explanation for this--like, maybe the soldier is having you on.

But Spy offers nothing more, and returns to his wine.

“So, if you don’t want to run courses for your PT, ensign, there’s a whole building full of equipment! There’s no excuse! BE THE SOLDIER YOU WERE ALWAYS MEANT TO BE!”

Well. Apparently you aren’t as adept at distraction as you thought, or you overestimated Soldier’s distractibility. You had almost forgotten about the training annex… you recall the boxing ring no one had deigned to tell you existed--empty, ready, and waiting while you sat (nervous, so afraid of being brushed off and declared useless) across from Miss Pauling. You can feel your heart start to hammer in your chest at the mere thought, how good it might feel to fight, for once, not to _kill_ \--perhaps Soldier wasn’t so far off after all. You take a breath. Should you?

Soldier is staring at you from down the table, somehow appearing to peer through the helmet that hangs over his eyes. Most of the others are listening with casual interest, probably wondering how you’ll dig your way out of this.

Might as well.

“Does anyone know how to box?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine a wink and finger guns from the author, please.
> 
> And yes, friends, I have started the draft of 33.


	33. Bloody Recreation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are once again, friends, and, as always, thank you so much for your patience and loyalty! Many thanks once again, too, to [Plenial](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pelinal/pseuds/pelinal) here on AO3 for their fantastic editing work.

All eyes sweep down the table, from you to one man in particular; Heavy sits frozen with the fork in his mouth, brows arched.

Honestly, you should have guessed he would be the only one. He’s a whole different competitor with all that bulk, but with the right approach, you could--

“Whoa, whoa, hang on, Spesh--you know how ta box? With gloves and a ring and the whole bit?”

A surge of pride rises in your chest. “Bare-knuckle,” you correct.

Scout’s jaw goes slack. “Uh--isn’t that kinda, y’know, illegal?”

“Isn’t killing people for money?” A smile lifts the corner of your mouth.

Sniper chuckles. “Just a mite.”

Heavy sets his fork aside, leans across the table. “You wish to fight me? No gloves?” It’s difficult to tell whether it’s disbelief or caution or the quiet thrill of challenge that colors his words.

Your heart races already at the promise of a fight: the rush as the world melts away around you, seconds to calculate the next move the scattered rhythm of flesh on flesh, jarring bones-- “Yes.”

His brow furrows, and you still can’t read the expression.

“If you can handle it,” you add, a touch of goading.

Heavy’s face lights up immediately and his booming laugh carries across the table. “Okay, okay, boxing match with little Specialist,” he returns; a jab of his own.

A disgruntled huff passes your lips, but you can’t smother your grin. “I’m not little.”

He chuckles. “True. For most people, you are big. But for Heavy--” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “--everyone is babies.”

You can’t help a giggle.

“Aaaaand that’s why my money’s on the big guy. No offense, Spesh.” Scout rocks back in his chair.

That sends a wave of determination straight to your head. “Oh, none taken.” You pop a bite of latke into your mouth and catch Medic blatantly studying you over his spectacles. As though he’s calculating the odds already. You wipe your mouth on your napkin. “It’s nothing on me when you lose it.”

That sends another round of laughter along the table--including yours. Scout, however, furrows his brow. 

“You’re a big talker now, but Heavy ain’t gonna be a walk in the park, ya know.” He folds his arms over his chest, wrinkling his red tee. “I’m not sayin’ I don’t think you’ll get some hits in, but without your gear, just fists--” He shrugs. “The bigger guy’s got an edge is all I’m sayin’.”

Spy swirls his wine glass. “Then put some  _ real _ money where your mouth is, as they say.” He pushes back his empty plate and takes a cigarette from its case. “Ten dollars on the specialist.” 

Scout’s mouth drops open a little, and so does yours--but you recover first and manage to cover the stupid look with a sip of water. 

“That’s--all right fine, old man--ten dollars on Heavy. Matched.”

A sly smile curls Spy’s lips around his unlit cigarette. He lifts it between his fingers. “Done.”

“Well, while we’re gettin’ in on the money, I’ll put a fiver on Heavy,” Sniper says wit the hint of a grin.

Engineer hums thoughtfully. “Guess we’ll have to make it a pot--five on Spesh and ten on the big guy.”

Your brows arch almost to your hairline. “Playing both sides of the fence?”

His grin is only the smallest bit sheepish. “I don’t have doctorate in mathematics fer nothin’.”

“Not in engineering?” You’re rather surprised.

A wry chuckle. “I have that one, too.”

Before you can try to puzzle that out, Soldier declares, “A BOX OF ROCKETS ON HEAVY.”

Scout frowns. “Uh… Solly, RED supplies our ammo. An’ you’re the only one who uses those.”

“THEN A BOX OF SHELLS.”

“But--ugh, never mind.” He rocks back in his chair again, dog-tags jingling. 

“Five on Heavy,” says Demo. “No offense, Lass. Yer two different classes.” He gives you a cyclopic wink. “Anyone else, and the money’d be on you.”

You cover the fact that you really are flattered with a chuckle. “Oh, I see how it is. I do good work on the field, but when it comes to the ring, bigger is suddenly better, no question!”

“No,” says Heavy, eyes glittering. “Bigger is  _ always _ better.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a heavyweight in my own right! Besides…” You elbow Scout’s ribs and his chair returns to all fours with a crack. “There aren’t any classes at all in an illegal sport, right?”

“Yeah,” he replies, “but Heavy’s gonna punch you inta next week--trust me, I know.” He touches his jaw with a wince that brings at least three questions to your mind.

To your surprise, Heavy’s grimace almost matches Scout’s. “Should not wake sleeping men from nightmares.”

Phantom images of your own demons suddenly fill every unoccupied crack and crevice, sweep up your spine with such a chill that you wonder how you managed to forget for even an hour. Perhaps this was a bad idea, maybe--

“So! That’s one for Spesh,” Scout indicates Spy, as though nothing had been said. You’re galled. You’re grateful. “One for Heavy,” here, he indicates himself. “One for each because Engie can’t make a decision--”

“I come out of this a winner either way, boy.” He cocks an eyebrow, a calm little grin settling on his face. “Can’t say the same about you.”

“Yeah, but I make out better when I win, wise guy. Demo ‘n Sniper have money on Heavy, and…  that leaves you.” He jerks a thumb in Medic’s direction. “You’ve been pretty quiet, Doc. Whatcha thinkin’?”

A quirk of the lips tells you that his silence has hardly been that of passive disinterest. “My two greatest achievements in single combat--vhat do you suppose I’m thinking?”

Scout suddenly grimaces. “Somethin’ I don’t wanna know about, prob’ly.”

“Hm.” The doctor’s sharp eyes rest on you. “Suffice it to say--twenty dollars on the Specialist.”

Your thoughts stutter; you aren’t sure you heard that right. 

“Oh my god,” Scout says.

You quite agree.

But your heart is hammering, and not in an entirely unpleasant manner.  _ Twenty dollars!  _ Medic meets your eyes with a shadow of his manic grin, no doubt knowing that your mind is absolutely reeling. He could buy a simple revolver for the return on that bet. A brand-new radio. Probably armfuls of lab equipment. But far more than that--somehow he’s absolutely sure that  _ you’ll _ win him the money.  

“You seem pretty confident there, Doc,” Sniper muses.

You’re finally able to wrench your gaze away from Medic’s, to acknowledge your teammate’s thinly-veiled inquiry, and it occurs to you that, truly, you should be distinctly worried, not thrilling and preening at the assured confidence you’ve been presented.

Demoman grins unabashedly over his bottle, not shaken in the least. “Sounds like a biased bet to me.”

Oh, fuck, you’re going to  _ lose _ . Medic has been blinded by his own pride in your damnable heart, but it’s not your heart that’s going to be fighting, is it? An artificial heart isn’t going to give you an extra five inches and another fifty pounds and fists the size of bricks, no. You’re not fooled in the least. You see it with sudden, blinding clarity: you’re going to get pummelled phenomenally. 

Phenomenally pummelled for fun, but phenomenally pummelled nonetheless.

“No offense to Heavy, of course,” the doctor says, but his eyes are on yours again, as though you’re the only one who needs to hear his case, crystalline and sharp through pristine spectacles. “Zhe Specialist is simply faster, with greater stamina. Heavy is strong, yes. Zhe stronger of zhe two, certainly. But Specialist--she is  _ vicious _ .”

That word shouldn’t roll off anyone’s tongue the way it does his, a soft, curling lilt, pleasure and glee wrapped up together. 

Besides, it certainly isn’t a word you would use to describe yourself, not in the ring, not even at your nastiest on the field-- _ that’s not who you think yourself to be, is it?  _ hissing in a voice like smoke and blood. Just like that, you can’t breathe again, and fingers curl into fists. You can’t panic now. You can’t. You  _ can’t _ . You have to focus--the pain in your palms as nails catch skin isn’t enough--

You’re still facing Medic. The doctor. He’s cooked the meal you can still taste on your tongue, savory and sweet. His tie--scarlet silk--red, safe, catching white fluorescents, it’s the right color. The right color. White sleeves are still rolled up to his elbows, impeccably clean. There’s a fleck of sauce staining the seam at his shoulder, as yet unnoticed. Sweat gleams under his tight collar. The knot he’s used on his tie is a crisply done four-in-hand. It’s the one for military dress. You remember. A double twist ‘round, tucked between, pulled snug, savvy, never too tight. And it’s red. You find his eyes again and air rushes back into your lungs, a quick gasp as you remember where you are. 

Things are fine.

Medic is looking at you and you feel like he  _ knows _ , but you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed, not when there doesn’t appear to be an ounce of pity behind those spectacles--only recognition. 

You’re back, and thank God for that. 

Conversation trickles back in, like you’ve only been gone for a handful of seconds at most.

“--nah, he’s just got money ta burn, an’ somethin’ ta prove-- _ or _ , he’s got somethin’ cooked up we don’t know about, but I’m not layin’ any more money on it,” Scout is saying. 

Oh, right.  _ Twenty dollars? _ Who the fuck would put twenty dollars on a recreational match arranged over dinner? You’ve been around him long enough to know that Medic is not a stupid man. Reckless, yes, proud, yes, but not  _ stupid _ . 

So why would he up the ante so steeply? You wonder if he knows something you don’t. 

“A… rather high bet, isn’t it?” you manage at last, and keep your eyes on his face, searching for the smallest misgiving, the slightest clue about this madness.

Folly, of course, as he gives only a careless shrug and the same amused smile as before. “I can afford it.” 

Knowing your own salary, you have no doubt--but it’s the principle of the thing. 

“Let the man do what he will with his money,” says Spy, a swirl of burgundy in his glass and the faintest turn of amusement on his lips. “Once Heavy names the time, since you’ve made the challenge, we shall see who comes out the better for all our bets.” 

“All right.” You drain the last of the water from your bottle.

Down the table, Heavy seems to be chewing methodically, thoughtfully. Then, after a moment: “Eight o’clock is good for you?”

A little swell of excitement returns to your chest. “Done.”

 

* * *

 

It wouldn’t hurt, you think, to head outside early and warm yourself since it’s been so long; the last time you got into a match just for the fun of it had been during boot camp with one Seaman Recruit Alison “Hammer-fisted son-of-a-bitch” McKinnley. The skills you’d picked up during school were transformed into self-defense habits, the feel of real, organized matches half-forgotten. And then, that raven-haired problem recognized one of your counters in hand-to-hand training. The rest was two bloody noses, four reprimands, and a half-dozen stolen moments of illicit peace. You change into a couple layers with a bit more give, slip on your sneakers. After that, of course, was the OTH.* You wonder if getting caught with McKinnley would have been more or less embarrassing a discharge.

The halls are empty but you don’t mind, as long as your team is not at the ring already--you’re quite looking forward to being alone for a little while.

Outside, the air is already winding down into a cottony warmth without the blaze of the sun. You push the door of the outbuilding, inhale the scent of steel and plywood and the rubbery sort of smell that accompanies gymnasiums.

“You are early.”

For a moment, you can’t find him--but Heavy is not an easy man to overlook. He lays on a mat just beyond the ring, supporting himself on broad arms.

“So are you,” is the only thing you can think to say.

He smiles, sits up, folds his legs like a butterfly and straightens his back. “Preparing.” 

“What a coincidence.” Your expressions softens, too, and you pace around the ring to the mat. You step up on its edge with the ball of your foot, press down toward the floor with your heel to stretch your Achilles. 

Heavy stands, stretches his arms above his head, out in front, then to either side.

You try not to think about how fucking huge his shoulders are. You fail, and mentally prepare for an inevitable broken nose. You switch feet.

“Where did you learn to box?” you ask.

A crease appears between his brows. For a moment you think he won’t reply--the pause is just long enough for you to consider apologizing\--you recall Medic’s words about Heavy’s nightmares. “Russia.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “And you?”

You catch on, and relax. “America.”  

Amusement crinkles his eyes, and he drops into a series of squats. You take the opportunity to step onto the mat and stretch out on your stomach for some slow abdominal twists. 

The silence that ensues is companionable, broken only by gentle puffs of breath and the creak of a joint or two that aren’t quite ready to exert themselves. You focus your mind down to the pull of muscles beneath your skin as they flex and relax. To your breath in and out, flowing like silk down into your belly, then up again into the air. The energy starts in your chest. It tingles along your arms, buzzes down to your feet. The adrenaline, the thrill, the promise of a fight. 

Your head snaps up as the door creaks, but you can’t see over the raised platform of the ring. Patiently, you finish your set as boot-heels click on the cement floor. You know who it is without looking, by now--US military-issue boots have a flexible sole, and while patent-leather might click if the wearer so chose, only one person on base makes this distinct tread. 

“I’ve brought the medi-gun,” Medic says with a grin, rounding the corner.

“I’m sure that’s not necessary.” You sit up, glance at Heavy to try to gauge his opinion on the matter, but he only shrugs. “I’ve fought plenty of matches with only a bag of ice and an aspirin waiting for me.”

“I imagine such scuffles weren’t against anyone of Heavy’s caliber,” he replies dryly. “Would you enjoy wandering around tomorrow with a concussion or internal bleeding until respawn?”

“We do not  _ have _ to hurt,” says Heavy. “So there is no need to hurt. We have medi-gun: we use it.” 

You still can’t help but feel your machismo has been undercut, but arguing with upwards of 350 pounds of muscle and logic before you fight said three-hundred pounds of muscle seems unwise. “That makes sense,” you concede. 

“Of course it does.” Medic takes the pack from his back and sets it in the corner by some folding chairs. 

He has put his uniform back on, you realize, watching while coattails swish around leather-encased calves. The realization brings a brief feeling like disappointment. 

You try to ignore the sound of his restless footsteps and continue your routine. Step into a lunge, count out the seconds. Heaving Heavy in here with you is one thing--he has his own business. But Medic is here to wait. He’s extraneous. It unsettles the atmosphere.

You straighten up. Switch legs. Lunge again.

There’s a question rising in your throat. You try to distract yourself with rhythmic breathing, but--well, it’s not your fault he’s here.

“Do you really think I’m going to win?”

“Why would I bet in favor of someone I believe will lose?”

You can come up with at least three reasons, but since they all stem from sentiment on the part of the person making the bet, you must admit they don’t seem plausible. Before you can reply, you hear Heavy speak from somewhere over your shoulder:

“Would be foolish,” he says, but his deep tones are colored with amusement. “But people do many foolish things for many reasons.” 

Medic snorts. “Sometimes people who can’t see zhe reason assume it foolish--even when the thing is flawlessly rationalized.”

“Some people think too much,” Heavy replies, “and some talk too much.” You turn just in time to see him wink at you over Medic’s shoulder. “Both are still foolish.”

You don’t hide your grin, thinking Medic is rather a bit of both.

“Pah--” Medic says. “If anyone thinks too much and has gotten foolish, Heavy--”

The door creaks again, and this time: “Mrmrmrph?”

“Yes?” At this point, you’re fairly certain you recognize your name. But one can never be sure. 

“Mr mrrd!” Pyro comes, suit squeaking, around the corner.

“They told you what’s on, I take it?”

Pyro makes the ‘yes’ sign with their fist and nod. “A-N-D,” they spell, and present both hands, palms up before flipping them palms-down. Then, they spell, “B-E-T.” Repeat the motion. You repeat it back--open hands, palms-up and then down--to an enthusiastic nod of approval.

“And what did you think of the bet?” you ask. It doesn’t matter, really, you suppose. But you want to know.

Pyro opens a hand, displays five fingers, and points at Heavy.

You can’t help the sinking feeling in your chest, but then, Pyro holds up a hand--“ _ wait. _ ”

They display five fingers again, and point at you. You smile just as Heavy chuckles. “You bet five dollars on both of us?”

“Mrhr!” Pyro displays the ‘okay’ symbol and it feels like a bright grin.

Medic clicks his tongue with amusement. “What a diplomat.”

Pyro shrugs, and the door creaks again. You decide not to attempt any further stretches if the room is going to continue filling up like this.

Demo and Engineer come into view, each with a cooler in hand. “Brought some drinks!” the former declares. 

You’re certain no one will have a drink finished before the fight is over, but that means there’ll be one for you, win or lose.

The others are talking, starting to move some of the folding chairs into positions suitable for watching the fight. You take a deep breath and close your eyes. The drone of voices, the shrill shriek of chairs unfolded, the crack of a bottle being opened. Inhale, focus. The door creaks again. Scout starts chattering immediately. You hear the murmur of Sniper’s voice, too.

Open your eyes. Exhale.

Soldier is on the heels of Sniper and that accounts for everyone. Or--you count again. Seven. You and Heavy make nine--

“Are you ready?” Spy asks, just out of reach of your elbow, which you’re pretending didn’t jerk itself backward when you registered his voice.

“Yes.” You relax your arms. Shake our your suddenly tense shoulders as much as possible. “Yes, I am.”

He produces a silver case from his coat, draws a cigarette from it with a nod--“Good”--and places it between his lips. He lights it behind a gloved hand and takes a long drag. 

The smoke is sharp, so spicy that you’re not sure whether it’s pleasant or if you’d like to request that he move outdoors. 

“I am eager to see how you choose to approach him.”

Absently, you rub your chin. “You… do know it’ll be over in five minutes or less?”

Spy chuckles through another cloud of smoke. “Yes. You suppose they are unaware?” He nods toward Demo, Sniper, Soldier, and Scout, all caracking into the cooler, chatting and leaning on creaking chairs. 

You nod, arch an exaggerated brow. “Yeah.”

“If they wanted a full showing, they could have volunteered for warm-up fights.”

The image of Scout running around in circles until his opponent lost their temper flits across your mind, leaving a trail of amusement. “Maybe next time.”

He looks almost surprised. “Already arranging another?” He puffs on the cigarette. “You’d like the opportunity to break everyone’s noses, I suppose.”

There’s a full grin on your face now. “Maybe.”

“I’ll have to be the first to disappoint you; I find I’m quite satisfied with mine unbroken.”

“That might be, but perhaps you’d like the opportunity to break mine instead?”

Spy chuckles. “Not yet. For the moment, I find your presence tolerable and your skills acceptable.” He releases a thin stream of smoke from his lips. “Good luck, Specialist.”

You don’t bother hiding how unabashedly pleased you are at such a compliment. “Thank you.” Not enough. “I--”

But he waves a careless hand and slinks off to where your teammates have taken their seats. You roll your shoulders. Spy doesn’t join them, instead leaning against a support beam that offers not only a good view of the ring, but of the room at large. Habit, you suppose. 

You tug your shirt brusquely over your head. This leaves you in a white tank that will allow for maximum flexibility; you’re going to need all the flexibility you can get. You toss your t-shirt over a nearby set of free-weights, and pace a circle, swinging your arms, pumping them across your chest. You’re ready. You can do this. You’re  _ ready _ . You’re ready, you’re ready, you’re ready, you’re--

“ _ Dayum _ , Spesh!”

You pick your head up.

“If I’d known how many guns you were packin’ under there I mighta put some money on ya.” 

You can feel the flush hit your cheeks and fervently wish you could will it away, or at least lose the self-conscious grin. “Your loss, Scout.”

He shifts, chair squeaking, so he sits with one foot flat on the seat, the other on the floor, resting an elbow on his kee, swinging his beer between two fingers. “You still gotta knock Heavy out, though. But remind me not to piss ya off, anyway”

That’s enough to distract you from being scrutinized. “You know we often go to blood or forfeit, right?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s cool an’ all, but I don’t think you’re gonna have trouble knockin’ each other to the floor.”

“Blood is enough for me,” says Heavy, stripping off his shirt, too.

If you had a reply, it’s promptly overridden by the iron bulk of his shoulders, the flex of his arms, and the sound paunch of his stomach. He turns slightly to make some remark to Medic, and his back is a bess of white scars that were certainly not sustained on any modern battlefield. The man is an absolute juggernaut, with fists like hammers and the stature of a giant. 

And you’re going to fight him in unarmed combat. 

What the hell are you doing?

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. First blood, that’s it. First blood. Forget that he’s greater than anyone you’ve ever faced. You’re not afraid of pain. Not pain. Not here. 

Remember, this is recreation.

You open your eyes to see Medic with that ever-curious expression on his face. “Ready?”

“Yeah--yes.” You straighten your back, try to relax your shoulders. “I’m ready.”

“Yes.” He peers intently through his spectacles. “I believe you are.” 

Medic nods toward where Heavy climbs onto the platform. You follow, one foot braced on the edge, pulling yourself the rest of the way with one hand on the ropes, and slide through.

Inside, Heavy offers you one of those massive hands. You accept, shake, give him a firm nod that he returns. His grey eyes are as soft as ever, and bright with excitement.

Yes. The thrill returns to your blood, singing. Nobody dying. Two friends beating the hell out of each other because, sometimes, that’s all you can do. Safe as houses. 

A grin cracks across your face and Heavy claps you on the shoulder. “Fight well.”

“And good luck,” you offer.

“Take your corners.” Medic springs up to the edge of the ring and perches there, leaning on the ropes, but does not enter. “Blood, forfeit, or loss of consciousness wins the bout, are we agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Agreed.”

You face Heavy, ropes at your back. A furious heartbeat hammers in your ears, slams inside your chest. Blood races. Take a deep breath.

“Ready?” You and Heavy step forward until you’re but two paces apart. Medic’s eyes are alight--as bright as though he has stepped into the ring to fight this match himself. Perhaps, in his mind, he has. You and Heavy are his crowning achievements after all.

Perhaps that’s the secret: he wins no matter who is victorious. You’re not sure why, exactly, that eases some of the tension crowding your mind. And not a moment too soon--

“Begin.”

Your mind is delightfully blank as your hands mirror Heavy’s, raised to the chin, elbows tight. But where Heavy’s hands are fisted into great hammers, yours remain open, relaxed, ready. One breath, two--neither of you move.

Heavy’s fist flashes out in a hook and your arm catches him halfway; next breath, your hand fists and slides along his arm--he dodges left, but your knuckles catch the edge of his jaw in a hammer-strike. Inhale; you’re recovering your arm from the strike and for half a moment, you’ve left yourself open on that side. Another hook rockets toward your cheek, and you fold your torso, step back, desperately, bring up your hand--

But the hook has transitioned neatly into a hammer-strike.

The world is ringing like an antique telephone, high and shrill. 

Searching--searching--searching, ground, torso, Medic leaning heavily over the ropes, ground--fist--

Your arm blocks the blow without conscious command, but the strike rattles severely along your bones. Capture the pain and suck a deep breath. The world is right again, but the ringing persists, muffles a voice.

Another hook, but you’re ready--you shove the opposite arm forward with just enough force to stop his momentum and as his other fist flashes out, you whip your arm back across, fully extended, snapping your hips to cut the back of your hand over his eyes and nose, and, following, your right hand presses forward, jabbing the heel just under his ribs. 

It isn’t until you’re already reeling that you realize you’ve left yourself open for an axe strike just below your ear.

The ringing doesn’t stop. 

But this time it doesn’t keep you from seeing a final hook angled for your temple. Thoughts race. Your arms can’t move fast enough. So you step into the blow, bow your head so the thickest part of your skull carries the force.

Over the ringing in your ears, you can hear Heavy’s furious cry even as you feel his fingers fracture against your forehead. 

His arm had not reached full force, but you still find yourself reeling, stumbling back and fighting to get your hands back into defensive position. Inhale. Heavy has withdrawn his hand fallen back--an opportunity. 

Exhale, step forward, hand open for a heel strike just under the chin--

But he raises his fractured fist.

You have just enough time to be surprised, but it’s too late to change direction; you’re committed. Heavy’s arm glides along yours. The last thing you see is the pull of muscle under skin, the crease of an elbow, and a rather distorted view of overhead fluorescents.

 

* * *

* * *

 

*OTH stands for “Other Than Honorable,” referring to military discharge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The More You Know:** $20 is a good marker for Too Much Money to spend on certain things in 1969. It would be a lot like me dropping $50-80 on something nowadays (approximate of course because I’m comparing prices of amenities and estimating that way). A $10 bet (that Spy places) is already a bit excessive for an ordinary person in 1969, like throwing $25-40 at something. More reasonable would be $1 to $5, which would be more like a $5 - $15 bet.
> 
> So…. $20 is a lot when gas is $0.32 per gallon, a gallon of milk is $1.10, and minimum wage is $1.60/hr.
> 
>  **The Even More You Know:** Without gloves in the equation, boxers must be much more precise and controlled in their movements because nothing is protecting the bones of the hand from impact. This is why many of the strikes employed by Spesh and Heavy in this scene use the fleshy part of the hand (in a “hammer” motion or open-handed in an “axe” motion) or its heel, rather than the knuckles we see frequently employed on television and in the movies. 
> 
> Furthermore, by going gloveless, it’s much less likely that combatants will receive multiple concussions without stopping the fight. Padding may keep the skin from breaking or bruising, but it does not keep your brain from rattling about with the impact of a punch at full-force. Attacks made with a glove are harder because a boxer need not worry about fracturing his own fingers, and thus, the risk of concussion to an opponent goes up. 
> 
> Speaking of fractured fingers and hands, Spesh’s technique of stepping into Heavy’s fist before he reaches maximum velocity is a real technique. By stepping into a blow, you can absorb the attack at reduced force, while deciding what the opponent will hit; in this case, a much harder bone than Heavy wanted to strike in the first place, resulting in fractures. 
> 
> The final move is carried by Heavy’s wrist and forearm (avoiding the use of his broken fingers), catching Spesh along her ear and the back of her head. The force, combined with an opponent already being off-balance, can bring them to the floor.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Crimson Special](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948696) by [PurpleCompromise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleCompromise/pseuds/PurpleCompromise)




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